


An Unsolvable Mystery

by Bridgr6



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Detective!Jorah, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Mild Blood, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Murder Mystery, Private Investigators, Slow Burn, burning slowly, slowest of burns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:33:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23369284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bridgr6/pseuds/Bridgr6
Summary: Disgraced detective turned private investigator, Jorah Mormont, is hired by Daenerys Targaryen to investigate a confounding murder case. Takes place in a (Westeros) universe closely modeled after 1940s America.
Relationships: Jorah Mormont & Daenerys Targaryen, Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 93
Kudos: 79





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, friends! Oh boy, here we go. Some of you may recall me mentioning (ages ago...actual ages ago) the possibility of a longer Jorleesi fic and here it is! This story is a somewhat old-fashioned murder mystery that takes place in the 1940s. I've blended the GOT universe with the American culture/setting of 1941 and onward. I hope that makes sense. But I've taken extensive artistic liberties in the creation of this story :) Forgive me. Regardless, I hope you enjoy the journey! Make sure to put on your deerstalker (Sherlock Holmes) hats! 
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3

_January 15_ _th_ _, 1941_

The house at the top of the hill, every old town had one.

It stood alone, perched high above the masses, as intriguing and distant as the family legacy clinging fiercely to its walls. Trees grew along the perimeter, shielding the home from unwanted passerby; allowing its elegant terraces to bathe in sunlight, while simultaneously shrouding the imperfections of its structure in deep shadows.

But Westeros was different from other old towns. It boasted more than one house, more than one hill, and more than one ruthless family. In fact, there were five – the Lannisters, Tyrells, Starks, Baratheons, and Targaryens – all powerful, all wealthy, and all towering well above the societal horizon.

Jorah didn't care much for political power or wealth and yet, there he stood, waiting outside the ebony gates of Dragon Manor. He was there on business – grave business. The kind of work that involved a grand number of schemes leading back to the premature demise of Viserys Targaryen, the heir to the Targaryen fortune.

It had been a week since the news of Viserys' death struck the town, skirting across the desks of governors and rattling the gilded cages of socialites. It was the most scandal anyone had seen since the war, and they were desperate to sink their pearly teeth into the local gossip.

As a former police detective, Jorah understood the kind of attention a high-profile case attracted. The newspapers were already criticizing the Westeros Police Department's handling of the investigation, calling for more resources and quicker resolution. One particularly scathing article referred to the WPD's chief of police as "Barristan the Buffoon."

It was exactly the sort of situation Jorah would do almost anything to avoid, especially given his history.

But then _she_ stopped by his office, radiant and earnest, pleading with him to investigate the case alongside the police.

" _He was my brother, Jorah. I need closure."_

Jorah hadn't been able to refuse her, but then again, who could refuse Daenerys Targaryen?

* * *

Six months earlier...

_Welcome to the dog and pony show_ , Jorah thought, as he stepped through the arched entryway of Highgarden – the crown jewel of the mayoral estate. Pausing beneath the first string of golden beads and woven roses hanging high from the ceiling, Jorah took a moment to observe the room.

 _Far too many people_ , he grimaced.

The party had started not long ago and already the main ballroom was packed with laughing nobles and stiff-dressed politicians, all wearing smiles sharper than their dress. Nothing was out of place. But Jorah expected nothing less from Olenna Tyrell, their beloved mayor. She ran a tight ship in both political and personal matters, collecting fear and admiration through steadfast leadership. It was wise to err on the side of caution when battling the older woman's quick wit. Thankfully he was in her good graces after debunking an embezzlement charge against her son, Mace.

And Jorah wanted things to stay that way. There was certainly no need to cut his palms on thorns.

His eyes continued to roam the hall, blinded by the metallic reflections of teal and gold off of pale, marble flooring. Tables lined the side corridors; each lit by a small lamp and draped in shimmering cloth. But few people were sitting – sharp, jazzy cords flew from center stage, luring guests from their tables and onto the dance floor.

Jorah's hand brushed along the front of his three-piece, wool suit anxiously. He felt a bit under-dressed beside men in double-breasted pin stripes and homburg hats. At the same time, he was grateful to be a decade behind in fashion; most of the men looked foolish with their over-sized jackets and padded shoulders.

_Perhaps that's where they stash their money._

Besides, it would take more than a fancy suit to make him feel like less of a pariah. Why hadn't he just turned down the invitation to the event?

" _At least show your face, Jorah. We need the publicity...it'll good for business."_

Jorah shook his head, cursing his business partner's earlier advice. Davos should've attended in his stead; he was much more adept at schmoozing. Jorah simply lacked the skill and desire for mundane conversation.

_Definitely need a drink._

Jorah heaved a sigh and headed for the open bar situated in the far corner of the room. Catching the bartender's attention, he ordered a whiskey and positioned himself against the back wall. From there, he was able to watch the center floor and entrance carefully.

There were many familiar faces. Most were government employees or prominent politicians, but a few budding actresses and artists were thrown into the mix. Although most seemed to be delightfully engaged in conversation, Jorah could tell by their glazed-over expressions that it was a facade. They appeared either too bored or too lost in ego to engage in anything other than obligatory niceties.

The entire night was a grand act worthy of theater.

"Sometimes it's the quiet observer who sees the most," a soft feminine voice pulled him from his thoughts.

Jorah jumped slightly, turning to face the owner of the voice. Startling violet eyes smiled up at him from beneath a halo of silver. He blinked hard, surprised.

_Daenerys Targaryen._

Not a soul in the room would fail to recognize the silver-haired beauty. Even if he hadn't noticed her distinct hair color, the large dragon brooch pinned to her dress instantly gave her away. Jorah glanced down at the dark, gem-studded eyes of the mythical beast and swallowed.

"Daenerys Targaryen," she introduced, holding out an elegant hand.

Regaining his composure, Jorah reached out and grasped her hand, shaking it tentatively.

"I'm well aware of who you are, Miss. Targaryen."

"And I, you... _Mr._ Mormont," her voice dipped around the prefix, teasing his formal use of her surname.

He frowned slightly, knocked off-kilter by her presence and baffled as to why of all people, it was him she had decided to approach. They did not exactly move in the same circles.

Fingers pressed against the back of his hand, alerting him to the fact that their palms were still clasped together.

As if burned by fire, he pulled away.

"I'm surprised to see a man of high caliber mingling among the Westerosi haut monde."

Jorah's brow creased further.

"A man of high caliber?"

"Yes, your name carries quite the reputation, Jorah Mormont."

He winced involuntarily, thinking of all of the headlines he had made while being forced out of the WPD two years prior.

_A shameful reputation._

Jorah sincerely doubted her words were meant to cause insult, but there was no stopping the familiar wave of embarrassment that washed over him. Gauging her pleasant expression, it was much more likely that she was acknowledging his recent case success.

"Yes, well, you should tell that to my business partner," he cleared his throat, glancing away from her and towards the bartender – he was in dire need of that drink.

"Is that what you're here for? Business?" she asked, lifting one eyebrow delicately.

"Something like that, yes."

Daenerys nodded, freeing him from her scrupulous stare as she turned her eyes to the dance floor. He followed her gaze, determined not to become distracted by her beauty – which was becoming more and more difficult – there was no mistaking the caress of silk as the fabric of her dress brushed against his arm.

"Most men would be eager to mingle among the elite." her eyes snapped back to him, a familiar emotion dancing in the colorful hues around her pupils. She was teasing him, nudging him towards the easy line of _"I'm_ _not like most men."_

She dangled the bait in front of him, but he didn't bite.

 _If it was charm or sophistication she was after, she would have to look elsewhere,_ he thought bitterly.

"As I said, Miss. Targaryen...just business," he maintained a neutral tone – not quite rude, but not welcoming either – hoping it would deter further conversation.

Much to Jorah's surprise, instead of fading, Daenerys' smile shifted into an outright grin.

"You keep going on about this alleged _business_ , yet I don't see how you'll be able to accomplish much of anything while moping in the dark corners of the room," she stated, reaching around to intercept his drink just as the bartender set it down on the counter. Jorah opened his mouth to argue, but she had already taken a large swig of the whiskey, staining the rim of the glass crimson with lipstick.

"Since it seems highly unlikely that you will indulge me in a dance, why don't I take you around and introduce you to some proper customers?" she offered, pressing the now half-empty tumbler against his chest. He instinctively grabbed the glass before it could slip to the floor. In doing so, his fingers brushed against hers lightly. That intoxicating smile floated up to her eyes.

Jorah searched the depths of his mind for the words to refuse the offer, but came up empty.

Taking his silence as acceptance, Daenerys slid her hand through his already half-bent arm and secured her dainty fingers along his bicep. Jorah inhaled sharply and his shoulders stiffened, rebelling against her touch.

_How had he gotten himself into this situation?_

"Oh, don't look so terrified, Mr. Mormont...we're friends now," Daenerys patted his chest lightly, giving him just enough time to slap a few bills on the bar before leading him away.

* * *

_Friends –_ Jorah mused, staring up at the black dragon gargoyles perched proudly atop Dragon Manor's cornices – _what a strange way to describe his relationship with Daenerys._

Then again, strange was the most accurate word to describe their encounters, which seemed to increase in frequency over the past six months. He bumped into her everywhere – on the street, at his aunt's diner, at the post office.

Now that they had met, he couldn't get rid of her.

 _Not that you want to_ , a voice in the back of his mind reminded him.

Jorah closed his eyes, irritated by his own reckless emotions. He knew better and had vowed to _do_ better. Romance was out of the question. No more falling heart first for charming women just because they devoted attention to him.

 _She's not Lynesse,_ the voice whispered.

 _Perhaps not,_ Jorah admitted, but regardless of his feelings, he had a job to do. Daenerys hadn't hired him to fawn over her or fall delusional to woes of the heart. He had to remain professional and focused.

Then, once the case was solved, they could return to their pleasant but distant acquaintanceship.

Jorah glanced up at the gargoyles again and grimaced.

_But nothing in Westeros was ever that simple, was it?_


	2. Chapter II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jorah conducts an initial interview, explores the scene of the crime, and uncovers more questions than answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! Second chapter, let's go. Thanks to everyone for the positive feedback on the first chapter! I can't wait for the story to get rolling a bit more 'cause I know you'll all have fantastic theories (many that may even be correct, but who knows, really?) I hope you guys enjoy this update! The plot is thickening like some quality oatmeal...dun, dun dunnn.
> 
> Also, stay healthy, stay safe, and I hope (those who celebrate) have a good holiday! <3

Jorah walked across the driveway with long strides, pulling up the collar of his coat to block out the biting wind. Although it was mid-afternoon – the supposed warmest part of the day – the air was frigid enough to burn his lungs. The weather had been surprisingly pleasant for the past two weeks, but if the current temperature was any indication, they would soon fall into a deep freeze.

His eyes cut to the sky, peering up at the mass of clouds overhead. There were no brilliant colors, just charcoal wisps outlined in glowing edges. Dying sunlight escaped through thin patches of grey, carving shadows along the sharp exterior of the manor, which struck an imposing silhouette against the darkening sky.

Up ahead, the front door opened and Daenerys stepped into view. Having grown accustomed to fine silks and eccentric styles, Jorah was pleasantly surprised to see her in a two-piece dress and checkered jacket. The simplicity of the look suited her silver curls and elegant figure.

But her serene outward appearance didn't fool him – even from a distance, he saw the grief that clouded her eyes, mingling with another emotion he recognized, but couldn't name.

Jorah's shoes scraped against gravel as he stopped in front of her. In an act of well-rehearsed etiquette, he lowered his head and removed his fedora.

It was a quick movement – a brief loss of contact, but when their eyes met again, he struggled to find words. There was no need for condolences; they had been uttered in days prior, and it felt insincere to repeatedly apologize for a death out of his control. No doubt she had heard it all before.

And yet an embrace felt too personal and a reassuring pat on the arm too cold…

"It's good to see you, Miss. Targaryen," he decided, his tone softened by the faint curve of a smile. The gesture was by no means cheerful. His lips protested the movement, determined to remain drawn and stern, despite his efforts.

But if Daenerys recognized the smile as a poor imitation of an expression long forgotten, she didn't let it show. Instead, she rewarded him with a soft smile of her own.

"You too, Jorah," she murmured, eyes tracing over his features slowly.

They stood in the doorway, eyes locked together for a long moment.

Daenerys blinked suddenly, shaking her head. "Please, come in."

* * *

"This is my personal assistant and good friend, Missandei. She manages the day-to-day chaos around here. Without her, my life would be in shambles," Daenerys introduced the dark-haired woman who entered the drawing room after them.

Missandei let out a breathless laugh, her head bent towards the ground in an effort to hide a bashful smile. Jorah glanced between the two woman, recognizing the genuine warmth of a friendship stretched beyond the role of employer and employee.

The young woman offered him a drink, before slipping out of the room and closing the door behind her.

Daenerys turned back to him.

"The only other staff member is Greyworm, our horse groomer and trainer. After my father died, there was no need to maintain full staff but I couldn't let Missandei or Greyworm go," her tone turned a bit wistful. "They're family."

"I'll need to speak with both of them."

"Of course."

"And everyone else present that night," he added, knowing there had been a small gathering on the eve of Viserys' murder.

"I've invited them all to dinner."

Jorah frowned, confused. "When?"

"Tomorrow evening."

He huffed out a breath of amusement.

 _A_ _room full of murder suspects should_ _make for an entertaining e_ _vening_ _._

"It seemed more straightforward than tracking everyone down individually." She shrugged, crossing one leg over the other. "I suppose you need to hear my version of events as well."

"From the beginning, if you would," he said, balancing his hat on one knee while blindly reaching for the notepad hidden in the depths of his coat.

Daenerys took a deep breath. "As I'm sure you're aware, we hosted a dinner here at the manor that night. It's a monthly tradition between the who's who of Westeros. The duty of host or hostess rotates after each dinner."

"Who was in attendance this month?"

"The usual crowd – Tyrion and Cersei Lannister, Petyr Baelish, Sansa Stark, Varys – and Viserys and myself, of course."

_A representative from each family._

"Why Petyr Baelish and Varys?" Jorah leaned back, titling his head curiously.

"Varys attends on behalf of the mayor, to make sure the needs of the city are being addressed."

"Don't you serve as a junior advisor on the mayor's staff?"

Those were the rumors – Mayor Tyrell was grooming Daenerys for the future election, vying to keep a hand in office beyond her term. Power was an addiction not even age or experience could tame.

Daenerys glanced down at her lap, absently plucking at invisible lint. "Yes, well, some doubt my ability to remain impartial." She released a bitter chuckle. "The struggles of the family legacy, I suppose."

"And Mr. Baelish?"

"Baelish..." she scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Haven't you heard? His is the biggest name in business. My father invited him years ago and we've been unable to get rid of him ever since."

 _L_ _eave it to Aerys Targaryen to_ _plant_ _a snake in the grass_ , Jorah mused.

Although the Targaryen patriarch had passed away five years prior, his legacy remained. The family came from old money, but Aerys had risen to fame as the premier weapon manufacturer during the first war. There was not a gun sold in Westeros that didn't proudly bear the Targaryen brand. Rumors circulated regarding the legality of said business, yet no one was brave enough to peek behind the curtain.

It came as no surprise that Aerys had supported Petyr Baelish, another morally ambiguous man who spent the last decade disguising illicit activity as public service. Baelish owned a series of prominent speakeasys turned nightclubs, from which he facilitated bootlegging and dope peddling.

_Perhaps Viserys had followed in his father's footsteps._

"Did everyone stay for the evening?" Jorah asked.

"Yes, overnight, actually. The visits often run late, so we keep the guest rooms available."

Jorah looked up from his notepad. "Forgive me, Miss Targaryen, but I'm not sure I'm following...what exactly is the intent of these _dinners_?"

"Political scheming? Ego hoisting? The mayor believes open dialogue between the influential members of the city will put an end to secrecy and treachery."

"And you? What do you think?"

"Truthfully?"

Jorah nodded.

"Westeros wouldn't survive without its secrets."

* * *

" _Tyrion found Viserys dead in the stables the next morning."_

Daenerys had remained stoic through the majority of the interview, but her eyes brimmed with tears as she spoke of her brother's death directly. Jorah took pity on the poor woman and cut the conversation short, heading down to the stables alone. Her story was only a small fraction of the puzzle.

" _I'm giving you seventy-two hours, Jorah. Any other day and I wouldn't even consider Miss. Targaryen's request, but as it so happens, I've got the mayor breathing down my neck about budget and resources. So you get three days. After that, I dredge out that pond, politics be damned."_

Barristan's words had been concise during Jorah's visit to the station earlier that day. The man was not one to tiptoe around feelings or formality. The bad blood between them had faded into quiet professionalism – they wouldn't be sharing a drink anytime soon, but they could work together well enough. Barristan didn't seem to hold Jorah's past mistakes against him, which would have been appreciated, if not for the accompanying pity.

Having worked together in the past, Jorah understood Barristan's investigative style and had hoped to review his notes on the case. Unfortunately, his old partner hadn't been involved in evidence collection or interviews, relying on Detective Daario Naharis to conduct the preliminary investigation instead.

New to the force, Detective Naharis radiated an alarming amount of enthusiasm and charisma...qualities Jorah lacked. He had nothing against the young man, who seemed arrogant but competent. Surely, there was a time when Jorah himself had been bright -eyed and bushy-tailed?

Standing outside the small barn, he scrolled through the notepad Naharis had loaned to him in a gesture of good faith, and grimaced.

The notes were awful.

It was difficult to read the young man's sloppy scribbles and even then, Jorah was left disappointed by the lack of detail beyond obvious observations, such as 'no murder weapon found.'

Although Jorah liked to arrive at his own conclusions, there was little time to retrace every step. Barristan was dead set on searching the property's large pond for the elusive murder weapon and would not wait longer than the three-day deadline to do so. Photographs showed deep gouges in the mud leading from the crime scene to the water, likely the result of the killer's attempts to disguise footprints. It was a logical conclusion, yet the mayor refused to cough up the funds or manpower to conduct a search. She insisted all other avenues be exhausted – enter Jorah.

Barristan had been generous in allowing a quick glance through the case file. The wooden stable ahead matched Jorah's memory of the crime scene photographs.

Pushing the main door open, he took a deep breath and inhaled the sweet scent of hay. It was a decent-sized structure, with two entrances and a dozen stalls, but only two horses were penned inside.

A black mare peered over the stall closest to the door with curious eyes, her cheek pressed against the wood to obtain a better view of her new visitor. Moving slowly, Jorah reached out a hand to stroke the white strip that spanned the length of her forehead. He smiled. An easy comfort existed in the presence of animals. One of the early joys of his childhood had come from exploring the forest outside his home and dreaming of a life among the woodland creatures, where simple chores could be avoided and every moment brought joy.

It had been many years since he'd felt the mossy ground beneath his bare feet.

It had been a long time since he'd been allowed to dream.

"Oh, the stories you could tell," he whispered, watching the mare bob her head in understanding. She pressed closer, sniffing at his jacket in search of a snack. Jorah chuckled and shook out the material in an effort to prove he had nothing of interest. The mare tilted her head towards his hands, clearly unimpressed. Holding up empty palms, he promised, "Next time, I'll bring you a treat, sweetheart."

The mare snorted, her breath lifting the brim of his hat and surprisingly, his spirits. With one last pet, Jorah stepped away from the horse and headed towards the far end of the stable, passing a long row of empty stalls on the way. There was a second door built into the back wall, evenly spaced between the final stalls, with just enough room left to store equipment and feed.

It didn't take long to find evidence of a crime – a dark bloodstain stood out against the concrete floor.

Jorah swiveled, studying every inch of the scene in practiced motion.

The police had already been through to collect trace evidence and photographs, subsequently releasing the scene back to the family. Someone must have attempted cleaning up the blood, for the stain was faded at the edges where water had permeated its depth. No amount of scrubbing would clear away the crimson mark completely, but it would fade with time.

Taking in the rest of the room, Jorah's eyes roamed the wooden shelves attached to the last stall. Spare rods and mounts were stacked together, covered in a thin film of dust that told him they hadn't been moved for some time. In the corner of the room, flimsy bags of oat leaned together, partially supported by a half-flattened pile of hay.

Nothing appeared out of place.

On the inside of the main door, there were a series of pegs built into the foundation, designed to support bulky equipment. Metal shovels dangled close together from the first two hooks, but the final notch was left empty…

Jorah moved towards the exit and stared out across the property. Even from a distance, he could see the thick mud that trailed from the stable to the pond – a result of repeatedly leading the horses to and from the water. The pond itself was massive, with a length that stretched beyond his line of sight and into the trees, but it wasn't all that far from the stable, only fifty meters or so.

_Why not drag the body to the water as well?_

If the killer had tossed the murder weapon into the water, it would do little good to fetch it now. Fingerprints and trace evidence didn't hold up well against the elements, especially not after complete submersion. And the coroner had already declared blunt force trauma as the cause of death. Barristan knew that, yet still petitioned for a full search of the pond. Perhaps it was the result of a stubborn desire to defy the order of politics. Barristan didn't like being told how to conduct his investigations, certainly not by a mayor who was pushing for his retirement.

Jorah sighed, refocusing on the problem at hand and the first of many questions that needed answering.

_Why leave the body?_


	3. Chapter III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya, friends! I’m back with an update and this one features a little Davos/Jorah backstory. They are major friendship goals, honestly. Next chapter will dig more into the mystery and suspects. 
> 
> Well, I don’t have much to say, except for that I adore all of you. Thanks for reading <3
> 
> Also, I apologize for any/all grammatical errors...it be like that sometimes...

_November 8th, 1916_

"Nah, you give me two cigs and all you're gettin' is a glimpse of my naked ass. A pack or nothing."

Jorah tucked his hands deeper into his jacket and tried to tune out the soldiers arguing behind him.

"A full pack!? For half a slab of chocolate? How do I know you didn't wipe your ass with it?"

"You wish I-"

The rest of the soldier's words were cut off by the platoon sergeant's familiar growl.

"Changeover! Let's go!"

Jorah sighed in relief, rolling out of the crevice that served as an improvised bed built into the trench wall. Moving quick, he collected his ruck and rifle, swinging them across his back with one hand while securing his helmet strap with the other. It was always best to make it to the front of the line, just in case they needed extra bodies for the subsequent rotation.

As he stretched for the first time in hours, blood rushed back into his limbs, causing a sudden wave of dizziness. He swallowed heavily, closing his eyes against the sickening feeling. Discomfort had become a standard part of life. It didn't matter if he was standing on the line of fire, curled up for a brief nap, or running messages between platoons – he was always uncomfortable.

Fortunately, the platoon was headed back to headquarters for some much needed rest. It was an endless cycle of four days on the line, followed by four days in the rear. Although Jorah treasured the few days away from enemy fire, he could never truly relax. Everything was too loud, he was constantly hungry and even after scrubbing his skin raw, he was never clean.

_Six months of this. How many more?_

Exhaling slowly, he followed the uniform in front of him, blinking away the flecks of mud that clung to his eyelashes and the exhaustion that dulled his senses. Other soldiers brushed past him in the narrow alley of the trench, nudging him off path as they hurried in the opposite direction. Jorah didn't look up – a mistake he had made after his first battle in the trenches – for in their haunted eyes, he found only the reflection of his own internal misery.

It was best not to look at all.

"Get a move on, Seaworth! Pack your things and go!"

Jorah jumped instinctively, surprised by the sudden noise that cut through the mental fog. A few feet away, one of the senior staff sergeants screamed into the face of a disheveled-looking private.

"I said – move!" The sergeant shoved the soldier who, caught off balance, tumbled to the ground. He landed hard on his back, splitting open his rucksack. Spare rations, clothing, and loose items skittered across the dirt. The man scrambled to his knees, trying to collect his belongings between the footsteps of marching soldiers.

He wore a clean uniform, filthy in only the places where he had fallen in the dirt. There were no frayed sleeves or stained trousers. He was new to post. Probably on his way out to the front line for the first time.

 _He doesn't need your sympathy,_ Jorah thought.

An unopened letter fluttered to the ground nearby, close enough for him to reach.

_Mind your own business._

But when had his heart ever listened?

"Shit," Jorah growled in frustration, side-stepping out of line to help the soldier. He moved quick, bending to collect the letter and strewn clothing in one sweep. The soldier uttered a breathless 'thanks' as Jorah hauled him to his feet and shoved the belongings into his arms.

But before he could jog back to his place in line, a low voice stopped him.

"Oh, you want to be helpful, Mormont? They need another man on the line today. Good of you to volunteer," his platoon sergeant barked.

Jorah turned suddenly, tired enough – no, _delirious_ enough to argue, but deflated the moment his gaze met the sergeant's head on. It was a direct order...disobeying would only bring more trouble.

Swearing again, he shoved his way across the moving lines, sick with disappointment as he headed back to the trenches.

Footsteps slopped through the mud behind him.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

Jorah clenched his teeth, angry with himself. "It's not your fault. I stepped out of line."

With a glance over his shoulder, he saw that the other man was still clutching his possessions close to his chest.

"Here-" Jorah grabbed him by the front of his uniform, gently pushing him ahead. "Keep walking," he instructed while opening the man's ruck. Jorah began cramming clothing and tin rations into the canvas bag, stacking the weight in deliberate order to prevent shoulder strain. He then tugged at loose straps, securing them in loops and rearranging the kit.

"Are you right-handed?"

The private nodded.

"Then your canteen should be on the left. Same goes for your med pouch. Free up your dominant side." Jorah made the corrections as he spoke them aloud. Once complete, he dropped his hands. It wasn't perfect, but it could be rearranged later.

The man thanked him again, steadier than before in both word and appearance.

They spent the rest of the walk in relative silence, except for the distant echoes of artillery fire. More often than not, the trenches kept the company safe from enemy shells, but that meant blocking out the rest of the world.

Oh how he missed the sun – which was only visible in the early afternoon – and air that didn't grow stale below ground. In reckless moments where exhaustion blurred reality, he imagined sprinting across the battlefield, fresh air in his lungs, sunlight warm against his skin. On one occasion, he had even caught himself reaching for the wooden ladder that led above ground.

That had been months ago – early on, when he had believed war was for stronger men...when he had felt too young to die.

But things were different now. _He_ was different now.

They soon approached the front line where the trenches split in two directions. A gaggle formed as soldiers awaited assignment, shuffling in place to keep warm, their gloved hands wrapped tight around metal rifles. Jorah stepped around them. He knew the tunnels well enough to find his position.

As the spare man on shift, he would be left alone. All he had to do was take up position and rotate on line when needed. If he was lucky, he would be on reserve for the morning.

_Just an hour of sleep. One hour was all he needed._

"Thanks again," a voice spoke from behind him.

Jorah turned, surprised to see the soldier from earlier. He managed a silent nod in response.

The other man extended a hand, his expression shifting from anxious to friendly, morphing his demeanor entirely. He looked less weary than Jorah felt, even though they looked to be the same age. Two boys draped in the uniforms of grown men.

"I'm Davos, by the way."

Jorah hesitated, eyeing the extended hand for a moment before shaking it.

"Jorah."

* * *

_January 15_ _t_ _h_ _, 1941_

"I thought we discussed this," Jorah groaned, as he pushed his way into the office.

Davos was perched on a wooden chair, leaning forward to secure a framed newspaper clipping on the wall. He rotated his head and glanced at Jorah, unabashedly amused. "No, you voiced your opinion and I disagreed."

"I let you frame the license. Isn't that enough?"

"Jorah, this is recognition. Customers want to see recognition. It builds trust."

"It's not _your_ face on the wall," Jorah argued, shuffling out of his jacket.

"And that's a damn shame, truly. But seeing as I spend more time in this office than you, I get to decide on decor," He stepped down from the chair with a grunt and paused to admire his work. "Does it look crooked to you?"

Jorah snorted in amusement. "Don't you have work to do?"

"I could ask the same thing. I wasn't expecting you back until later."

"I've done all I can for today," he shrugged, hanging his coat and hat on a nearby hook. "I spoke with Miss Targaryen, but the other interviews will have to wait until tomorrow. I figured I'd wrestle through the toxicology report tonight. Did Chief Selmy send it over?"

"The new detective came by with it," Davos muttered, rifling through the files and papers stacked high on his desk. "It's here somewhere..."

Jorah fought a smile. It was a miracle his friend was able to keep their business afloat through all the clutter. But he did an admirable job, juggling finances and business dealings while Jorah handled the investigative work.

"Likes himself, doesn't he?" Davos commented, lifting a beige folder from beneath a coffee cup.

"Who?"

"The new fellow."

"Detective Naharis?"

"I thought he'd never leave. Real doll dizzy, that one. Went on and on about the ladies."

Only half-listening, Jorah opened the file and moved to sit behind his desk.

Davos watched with a grin. "Oh and he sat in your chair."

Jorah grimaced, imaging the young detective reclined back with his feet up on the desk.

_Arrogant little…_

The insult trailed off as he studied the toxicology report. He ran a finger down the page, skimming through the list of tested compounds until he found a positive result.

"What?" Davos asked, noticing his raised brow.

"Viserys had significant traces of cocaine in his blood."

His partner whistled, impressed. "This case...pennies from heaven, right?"

* * *

The rest of the report was routine enough, but Jorah read through it anyway.

Davos had left an hour earlier to grab a bite at the diner before it closed, extending an invitation on his way out. Predictably, Jorah turned down the offer, eager to focus on work. It was the expected response and one his partner didn't take personally. They had been working together long enough to know each other's habits. Once on a case, it was difficult for Jorah to focus on anything else, even menial tasks.

And he didn't like distractions…

...which was unfortunate because a half hour later, the front door swung open, dragging outside light into the dimly lit office space and destroying his concentration. Jorah squinted through the dark, confused.

"We're closed until tomorrow," he said, cursing Davos for not locking up behind him.

"Yet you're still here...burning the midnight oil."

He recognized Daenerys' voice even before she stepped out of the shadows. There was a mischievous glimmer in her eyes as she walked towards him. "I was on my way out of your aunt's place when I ran into your business partner. He said you'd still be here," she explained, wandering past his desk to study the room in its entirety.

Jorah glared at the empty desk across the aisle, as if glaring at Davos himself.

"I was just going over some case notes," he murmured, reminding himself of his recent discovery. It was a sensitive subject, but one he couldn't ignore. "Miss. Targaryen, did you know your brother was using drugs?"

Although her back was to him, Jorah caught the slight pause in Daenerys' step before she responded, "Viserys abused drugs on and off for most of his life. We never did find his dealer and believe me, my father tried." She turned to him then, her expression softer and sadder than before. "A few years ago, he told me he was clean. I was delusional enough to believe him. But that night...his erratic behavior…the irrational anger"- her breath hitched - "I knew then that my dear brother hadn't changed at all."

When her eyes lifted again, they were filled with guilt – guilt for not having rescued her brother from his own demons. She released a shaky breath and diverted her gaze, searching the room for a distraction or change in subject.

Her eyes drifted to the unnatural chaos of Davos' workspace. With cautious hands, she reached for a frame on the edge of the wooden desk.

It was one Jorah knew well.

She smiled at the old photograph of Davos and Jorah, taken moments after their return home from war. It was a happy image, with both of them grinning at the camera – more so Davos, who had his arm wrapped around Jorah's shoulders in a brotherly embrace.

The photograph served as a pleasant reminder of a time when the worst had been behind them and the future seemed bright ahead.

"Handsome men in uniform," she commented, eyes fond. "Look at you two...you were just boys."

Jorah nodded. "Most of us were when we left."

Daenerys set the photograph down carefully, almost reverently. With continued curiously, she roamed around the small office.

It wasn't long before she spotted the new addition to the wall – the framed newspaper article.

"Oh, I bet you just love this," she laughed, stretching onto her toes to read the headline.

"It's been a source of great conflict in this office."

She clucked her tongue in disapproval. "You should be proud."

"It was one case."

"A major case. You saved an innocent man from a guilty verdict."

"The truth has a way of revealing itself in the end, with or without my help."

Daenerys walked towards him then, eyes narrowed, head canted. "The truth...I've been wondering about that for some time," she said, sitting on the edge of his desk. "Your past is shrouded in mystery. Rumor has it you were involved in those armed robberies two years ago. Is that why you left the police force?"

"You've seen the news and read the articles then. There is no mystery."

"I don't believe that's the full story. What's _your_ truth, Jorah?" she asked softly, leaning forward to poke his chest. The air tickled his nose with hints of her jasmine and lilac perfume.

She was close, _too_ close.

Jorah swallowed hard, caught between the desire to explain himself and the constraints of self-induced guilt.

_She doesn't need your sob story._

But her eyes indicated otherwise. The warmth in those violet hues called to the part of him that was desperate to be more than the sum of his mistakes.

She wanted to understand.

Perhaps she wanted to understand _him_.

And yet he couldn't summon the words necessary to explain the past. It wasn't about facing her pity or disgust – those he could handle.

What scared him was her acceptance. And the possibility of genuine affection.

Even more that, he was terrified of his own heart and the sturdiness of the barriers he had built around it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note – the slang term “pennies from heaven” means easy money. It also has religious meaning, but not in this context. Also “doll dizzy” refers to someone who is girl crazy.
> 
> I’ll try and remember to clarify wonky slang terms as they come along :)


	4. Chapter IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo! Sincerest apologies for the delay in posting this chapter. The next ones will arrive more promptly, I swear! I hope you enjoy the update. It may be slow (like me) but bear with me, young grasshoppers. Thanks for reading <3

January 16th, 1941 (48 hours left)

Jorah leaned back against the brick wall, seeking refuge from the chilly morning air. The alley was grimy and loud, with its overturned bins and industrial fans, but it was warmer than the open street. It also put him out of sight of the diner's large glass windows…and Aunt Maege's watchful eyes.

Having spent most of the night combing through case files, he had gotten little sleep, except for the hours spent dozing at his desk. But even those had been restless, interrupted by the loud laughter of men wandering home from a night at the club, and the early morning risers heading to work. It was better to start the day early anyway. The pressure of time would keep his work focused. If he remained busy enough, his mind could not wander to the night prior or the words Daenerys had spoken before leaving his office…

_"Perhaps you'll share your story with me another time then," Daenerys murmured, eyes soft. Without responding, Jorah walked her to the door, ready to bid her farewell in hopes that temptation would leave with her. But before she slipped out into the night, she leaned up on her toes and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek, lingering a half-second longer than appropriate. Her departing words were spoken between a smile that was both coy and sincere. "I'm a patient woman, Jorah."_

Gods help him.

A few feet away from where he stood, the back door swung open, slamming into the wall as a familiar whirlwind of dark hair rushed out. The smell of coffee and fried bacon escaped from the kitchen, almost strong enough to lure him inside.

"This is ridiculous," Dacey huffed as she walked towards him, one hand caught in her dark hair, the other carrying what he knew to be his breakfast. "I don't understand why you won't just come inside."

Jorah smiled at his cousin. Early shifts at the diner always put her in a dour mood.

"Good morning to you too," he said, pushing off the wall with his shoulder.

Dacey stopped in front of him, settling her free hand on one hip and leveling him with a disapproving look.

"I'm serious, Jorah."

He sighed. "Another time."

"You always say that."

"Another time, _I promise_."

Dacey narrowed her eyes. She knew he didn't make idle promises. Vows meant something in their family.

"Fine." She held out the wrapped sandwich she had brought with her. "But just so you know, Mom is not fooled. She knows your order."

Jorah nodded, taking the proffered food.

"She's not mad at you, you know," her tone softened. "The past is the past."

He pushed out a breath and ducked his head, scuffing the bottom of his shoe against the concrete. "I know."

There was a heavy silence between them before Dacey sighed. "And people say women are complicated."

Jorah lifted his gaze again and found his cousin's finger pointed at his chest, her brow half-raised.

"Just remember, you've made me an accessory to your crimes, bucko. If I have to face my mother's wrath, so do you."

"I owe you one," he smiled and lifted the wrapped breakfast. "Thanks, Dace."

His cousin titled her head, returning his smile before shooing him away.

Jorah cut down the alley and made his way back onto the street, mulling over Dacey's words.

_"She's not mad at you, you know."_

_No, not mad…disappointed,_ he thought.

Much worse.

* * *

"How would you describe your relationship with Viserys Targaryen?" Jorah asked midway through his interview with Missandei. Her recollections of the night in question had already paralleled those of her employer, with little additional detail. She had retired to bed shortly after dinner, falling asleep long before Viserys was murdered in the stable on the opposite side of the property. Her observations of the other guests fit what Jorah had observed over the years—Cersei's hostility, Baelish's cleverness, Varys's silence, Tyrion's…well Tyrion.

The young woman's hands shook slightly, as she lifted her glass and took a sip of tea. Her eyes met his and she took another drink. Although her voice remained calm, Jorah could tell Missandei was nervous. It wasn't unexpected. In fact, he preferred the genuine nature of her reaction. Unlike many of the other residents of the town, there was no deceptive glimmer in her gaze, or trickery behind her words—only compassion and intelligence.

Jorah softened his own expression. It was clear she was hesitant to speak ill of the dead. Awful as he might have been, Viserys was still her former employer and brother of a dear friend. "All I'm asking for is the truth."

The young woman nodded, setting the cup down on the table between them. She took a steadying breath.

"Mr. Targaryen could be…difficult at times," she started, clearing her throat slightly. "He had few friends and didn't bother with the staff. He went out a lot. I suspect to the clubs, given the intoxicated nature of his returns. When I did speak with him, it was to try and minimize Miss. Targaryen's exposure to her brother's reckless moods."

"You are talking about the drinking?"

"As well as the drugs. There is some truth to the rumors, but I only know what I saw—the late-night stumbling around the manor, the fits of anger…the violence. Other than that, I don't know what else to say," Missandei took a deep breath, straightening. "I didn't know Mr. Targaryen well. I don't think anyone did. I'm not sure he even knew himself." Her words were the echoes of an observer—someone who spent much of their life distanced from the crowd, capable of seeing beyond the public facades.

They sat in silence for a moment before Jorah closed his notepad, folding it into his jacket. "I appreciate you taking the time. I believe you would make a fine investigator," he comments, only half-joking. Truthfully, the force could use someone with her keen sense of observation.

The young woman smiled sweetly. "Of course, Mr. Mormo—" A car horn blared loudly, cutting her off mid-sentence. She stood quickly and moved to the parlor window, pulling back the curtain to peer down the drive. A barely audible sigh escaped, but when she turned back towards Jorah, a polite smile was already in place. "The guests have arrived."

* * *

Once Missandei left the room to greet the guests, Jorah glanced out the window.

A black sportscar—new and foreign in model—stopped crookedly at the front of the drive. If the drunken parking and gaudy lion hood ornament were of any indication, the Lannisters had just arrived.

Avoiding the front hall, Jorah cut through the manor to the far entrance. He had one other staff interview to complete before dinner and was in no rush to speak with either Lannister.

His second stroll down to the stables was as pleasant as the first. The land itself was beautiful, with grassy hills rolling into a dense line of trees on the far side of the manor. Although there was an air of mystery surrounding the property, Jorah enjoyed the seclusion and quiet. 

Only when he approached the large pond, did he feel uneasy. It sat at the bottom of the largest hill—murky and unnatural—like a dark pit waiting to swallow them whole.

_Perhaps draining it's not a bad idea after all_ , he mused, as he walked the trail along the outer fence of the stable.

Earlier, Daenerys had told him where to find Grey Worm, her second staff member. The young man spent most of his days working in the shed behind the stable, tending to and training the horses.

In front of Jorah, the narrow path cut short and in place of the small shack he expected, stood a sturdy log cabin. It was a modest structure, built by hand and weathered by nature's storms, but Jorah preferred it to the towering manor behind him.

After running his palm along one of the wooden beams, he knocked on the front door. He waited a moment. No one came to the door, so he knocked again, more forcefully. Taking a few steps back, he peered up at the chimney. There was no smoke rising to indicate someone was keeping warm inside.

Jorah walked the perimeter of the cabin, checking to see if the horse trainer was busy at work in the back, but found nothing and no one—except for rusted equipment in need of repair, and a pair of water-logged boots and drenched overalls set close to the wall. With a frown, he turned away and headed back towards the manor. He would have to speak with Grey Worm after dinner.

On the return trip up the hill, Jorah walked slower than before, foolishly attempting to delay the inevitable.

The entire evening would be a battle of wits between the guests, each eager to point the finger at the other. He expected deceit and hostility, even anger.

What he did not expect was a night of more violence.

* * *

"Jorah Mormont, as I live and breathe!" Tyrion was the first to greet him once he stepped into view of the main foyer. Halting his conversation with Daenerys, Tyrion stretched his arms wide and approached Jorah with a grin. Daenerys didn't look the least bit offended. In fact, she looked relieved.

"Tyrion," Jorah greeted neutrally, shaking the other man's hand.

"Did you see the article?" Tyrion asked, referring to the story published about the Tyrell case. As editor-in-chief of the Westeros Gazette, nothing slipped past Tyrion's desk without approval. Although Davos appreciated the feature, Jorah hadn't forgotten the other clippings Tyrion had posted about him—the ones that dramatized his fall from grace in painstaking detail.

"I did."

Tyrion waited for more of a response, but after a long stretch of silence, clapped his hands together. "How about a drink?"

"The usual poison?" Daenerys asked.

Tyrion's grinned. "What can I say? I am a man who knows what he likes."

Daenerys shared a long commiserating look with Missandei, before the other woman left to pour the drinks.

"And what about you, Mormont? Will you be drinking with us?"

"I'm here on official business."

Tyrion shook his head. "Still a fuddy duddy, I see."

Jorah bit back a sharp comment and instead returned the jab by bringing up a subject he knew sensitive. "Will your sister be joining us?"

As predicted, the mere mention of Cersei wiped the smirk off Tyrion's face.

"I would presume so. _Mrs. Baratheon_ will arrive fashionably late, no doubt."

Jorah nodded. The strained relationship between the two siblings was no secret. They both clung to anger fostered beneath the strict rule of their father, who had resented all but one child. Tywin Lannister had not been the nurturing type. The only person holding the relationship together seemed to be their brother, Jaime, who had hidden himself away since the war. Jorah had met him a few times while serving within the same brigade and found him to be the most tolerable member of the family. The rumors surrounding Jaime's fate spoke of grievous injury and disfiguration. Jorah wondered how much of it was true.

Fortunately, Tyrion liked to flip his wig often enough to make his secrets few. In order to avoid the truth, the man used quick wit in place of deception. But Jorah was no novice to the game. He would let Tyrion enjoy a few drinks before they spoke in private.

As the person who had found Viserys's body, Tyrion was either a hapless bystander or a cold-blooded killer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible trouble words:
> 
> fuddy duddy - someone who is old-fashioned and likes to follow the rules.
> 
> Flip his wig - lose control of himself. Can include getting drunk.


	5. Chapter V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woahhh another update in less than a week!? No one is more surprised than I lol 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter! It features Tyrion's interview, so it is...well, you know. Thanks for all the love and support, you classy humans. 
> 
> Side note - My AC went out over the weekend, so you could say my sweat and tears went into this...no blood though, despite the genre.

“Oh, not in there,” Tyrion scrunched his face in disgust as Jorah moved to sit in the parlor. “Too stuffy. Fresh air clears the mind,” he reasoned, making for the hall. After a few steps, he doubled back, snagging a half-filled wine glass, before leading the way to the second floor of the manor.

Jorah shook his head. It would take more than a light breeze to clear the man’s mind.

After crossing between the dining room and kitchen, they came to a large room at the end of the main corridor. Although the door was open, it looked as though the room had been empty for some time. White sheets were draped over the furniture, leaving thin lines of dust to collect in the loose pockets of fabric.

Tyrion bypassed the sitting area and opened the tall glass doors that led out onto a separate balcony. For someone who only visited the manor a few times each year, he seemed awfully familiar with his surroundings. Jorah said as much, to which Tyrion replied, “Something about this place has always been so alluring. Mysterious, dangerous…enticing curious minds to wander. Who am I to resist?”

“Most people call that being nosey.”

“It’s all in admiration.”

“Is that what you were doing when you found Viserys? Admiring the property?”

Tyrion turned to him with a grin. “Right down to business, I see. No small talk to warm me up? No complimentary charm to loosen my tongue?”

“I think the alcohol has already done the job for me.”

“Touché,” Tyrion said, raising his cup. “Well, if you must know, I had a bit of hooch that evening as well, so don’t expect any grand recollections.”

Jorah frowned.

“Oh, don’t give me that look, Mormont. You try sitting through these dinners month after month, watching Cersei and Sansa shoot daggers across the table, while Varys and Baelish hide in the shadows, whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears.”

 _Well, that’s something_ , Jorah thought. Since when had the mayor’s closest advisor and the town criminal been in cahoots?

Tyrion grinned devilishly, noting his interest. “I guess that cat’s out of the bag.”

Jorah wasn’t sure if it was a drunken faux pas or a calculated move. Tyrion liked his gossip. More than that, he liked everyone to know just how much he knew. It was his entire life and business.

Perhaps that would work to Jorah’s advantage.

“Difficult to know what they were discussing. Two of the cleverest minds in Westeros? Probably nothing more than a formal arrangement with the mayor,” Jorah mentioned with offhand nonchalance, eyes fixed upon the horizon.

Tyrion scoffed.

Jorah fought a smile.

Sometimes clever men were as predictable as fools.

“What part of ‘in the shadows’ did you not understand? That night wasn’t the first time I’ve spotted those two mingling together. I highly doubt they were discussing the dinner menu, considering there is an important election ahead. Not everyone favors Miss. Targaryen as the mayor’s successor.”

“Speaking from personal opinion?”

Tyrion snapped his eyes back to Jorah. An intelligent spark emerged from behind the glossy sheen of alcohol. “Speaking from what I hear. _Personally_ , I think Daenerys would make a fine mayor. If that’s what she wants.”

“If that’s what she wants?”

“Have you ever seen a less enthusiastic political candidate?” Tyrion lifted his wine glass and tapped it against his temple. “It’s like the old crone is holding a gun to the poor girl’s head.”

With a sigh, Jorah leaned back against the stone wall. “Alright, I’ll bite. Who are the people calling for instead?”

Tyrion snorted. “Since when have the opinions of the people mattered? You know as well as I that it comes down to the old families. And their eyes are set on a Stark for the position. They’ve always been more…malleable than certain others.”

“The older boys are all in military schools. I don’t see any of them coming home to humor the heavy pockets of Westeros.”

“I think eyes are set on a prettier face.”

Jorah’s brow lifted. “Sansa? Isn’t she a bit young?”

“The puppeteers need free hands to bind with string, not political expertise. Besides, she is nearly the same age as Daenerys.”

Jorah sighed wearily. He just loved political schemes. For every answer, there were a dozen more questions. He pressed his fingers to his brow, closing his eyes to regather his thoughts. Tyrion had done a marvelous job of distracting him.

“This is all well and good, but you still haven’t told me why you were in the stables the morning after the murder.”

“Simple. I stumbled over there after dinner and fell asleep.”

“Fell asleep?” Jorah asked, skeptical.

“Passed out…fell asleep. Does it matter? All I remember is waking up to the smell of horse shit, with a mouth full of cotton and a head covered in hay. When I went to make my dignified exit, I found Viserys dead by the door.”

“Did you see anyone else? Hear anything?”

“I didn’t exactly have my wits about me at the time.”

“A man was murdered.”

“You don’t think I know that?”

“That’s it then? I just take your word for it?”

Tyrion scratched his forehead in frustration. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Mormont. While I was not fond of Viserys, I had no reason to want him dead.”

“Makes for a good story,” Jorah countered, forcing the subject further, hoping for a reaction.

“I’m not that desperate. Westeros generates enough gossip to keep business running fine on its own.”

Jorah pressed his lips together. Tyrion was right. There was no motive. Although the man was obnoxious, he was not a violent drunk.

“What about earlier in the night? Did you speak with Viserys?”

“Hardly. He stormed off in a tantrum before dinner was over. I heard him knocking around in that little observatory of his, ranting and raving like a madman.” Tyrion waved his hand over his head, indicating an invisible space above them.

“There’s another floor?” Jorah frowned. He hadn’t noticed the stairwell leading past a second flight.

“Just Aerys’ old office. It has a private entrance.”

“Show me.”

* * *

Tyrion seemed thrilled to be giving an impromptu tour. He chattered away about the other hidden gems of the manor, as he led Jorah to an abandoned library down the hall. There they found a rickety old staircase built into the corner of the room, concealed by a sliding door wedged between empty bookshelves. The climb was steep and narrow, built for one person to enter and exit without notice. Jorah placed his foot on the first step and gave a little bounce, testing his weight. The structure seemed sturdy enough. Jorah ducked his head and pushed his body sideways into the stairwell. A small beam of light filtered through the cracks of the door ahead, guiding him through the dark space.

A step creaked loudly behind him.

Jorah glanced over his shoulder to find Tyrion close behind, eyes glittering mischievously in the dark.

“What are you doing?” Jorah barked.

“I’ve never been up here before.”

“This isn’t one of your little adventures. It’s a murder investigation.”

“A second set of eyes couldn’t hurt,” Tyrion defended, his foot already resting on the next step.

“You’re still a murder suspect.”

Tyrion threw his head back with an exaggerated groan. “Back to this…why must you beat the dead horse?” he complained, then stopped, considering his words. He held up a hand. “My apologies. Insensitive phrasing, given the circumstances.”

It was Jorah’s turn to groan in frustration. He turned his back on the small man and continued up the stairs.

Some days he wished he still carried a gun.

Mercifully, the rest of the climb was made in silence, except for the natural creak of aged wood. At the top landing, Jorah opened the door slowly, hauling himself into the open room. His aching back sighed in relief as he was able to stand tall again. Although the room was small, it bore a cathedral-style ceiling. Natural light poured in from the large oeil-de-boeuf window centered above the room’s only piece of furniture—an old mahogany desk covered in papers, spilled ink, and a half-empty box of chocolates.

Jorah stood behind the desk, peering out the window. It gave him a perfect view of the pond, the stable area, and most of the front drive. It did not surprise him that Aerys had constructed such a room. The man's paranoia had been infamous.

“Well, that’s a bit grim,” Tyrion spoke up from behind him.

Jorah turned and followed Tyrion’s gaze to a series of large portraits leaned haphazardly against the back wall.

Grim was a generous description when terrifying seemed more fitting.

The canvases had all been slashed through with deep cuts across the faces of their subjects. Jorah stepped closer, bending at the waist to get a better look at the damage. He ran his hand across one painting, pushing the material back in place.

“Their eyes…” he murmured. Each cut targeted the eyes of the subjects, stabbing through the dark and vacant stares until they were nothing more than patchy bits of color. Jorah did not recognize the stern faces, but the silver hair gave away their lineage. Faded squares of wallpaper indicated they had once hung proudly overhead.

“Looks like Viserys did a bit of redecorating,” Tyrion quipped, grimacing as he eyed the mangled portraits.

Jorah didn’t respond. Instead, he moved back to the desk, skimming over the wrinkled papers and strewn journals. Most of it was illegible, save for an angry note about incompetent staff and an unopened letter from the Iron Bank. Jorah snatched up the letter before Tyrion—who was busy picking through the box of chocolates—noticed. Jorah slid the thin envelope into his jacket pocket.

He would ask Daenerys about it later.

While Jorah carefully sifted through half-opened drawers, Tyrion babbled on behind him, needing no audience.

“…there was a time when I posed for a portrait. Have you ever had a woman paint the most intimate parts of your body, Mormont? It is an enlightening experience. Oh…this one dame…I spent hours alone in her company, with nothing more than bowl of fruit between us. Can’t remember her name, but her face and her hands…”

Jorah tried to drown the other man out. The sooner he finished his search, the sooner he would be free of Tyrion’s company.

But as he moved away from the desk to inspect a final stack of papers, something soft smushed beneath his foot. With a disgusted grunt, Jorah lifted his leg and found the sticky remnants of one of the chocolates that had rolled off the table.

Perfect.

Jorah pulled out his handkerchief and made to wipe the brown mess from the sole of his shoe but stopped midway. There was a strange dusting of white powder between streaks of caramel and chocolate. Balancing his weight on his heel, Jorah crouched low to the ground, pressing the tip of his finger into what was left of the chocolate, carefully collecting some of the powder. He pressed his elbow against his knee and raised his hand to his face. The strong metallic stench of chemicals wafted up his nose, disguising deceptively floral undertones. He recognized the smell almost immediately.

“Even his taste in chocolate was shit…” Tyrion’s voice came back into focus.

Jorah whirled around quickly, watching as his companion finished chewing a piece of chocolate he had plucked from the box on the table.

“Seven hells! Don’t eat that!”

Tyrion looked up, surprised. “What?” he asked through a mouthful of sweets.

Jorah marched over to the desk and studied the rest of the box. Counting the piece that was still stuck to the bottom of his shoe, only four pieces were missing.

“How many did you eat?” he asked.

“Just the one. What’s the big deal? It’s not like anyone’s missing them.”

Jorah peered down at the evenly cut squares. There was a thin slice made in each one, almost invisible to the naked eye. Someone had cut them open, filled them with the powder, and reformed them. “They’re laced with cocaine,” he explained evenly.

Tyrion spat out the rest of his chocolate. “What!?”

“Someone laced the chocolates with cocaine. I’m assuming they were meant for Viserys. Considering the amount missing, he must have eaten at least two. That would explain the traces found in his blood”

“Those aren’t—that’s not what killed him, is it?” Tyrion asked, his voice raised in panic.

“No. But it means either the killer was just more successful on the second attempt, or someone else wanted Viserys dead.”

“So, I should be fine, right?”

“We will know for sure in a few hours.”

“That’s not funny, Mormont. This is not the time to try out a sense of humor.”

“You’ll be fine. Perhaps a bit pie-eyed, but none more so than usual,” Jorah reasoned, moving the box back into place.

“You aren’t going to call Barristan?” Tyrion asked, watching him closely.

“Whoever gave Viserys this box of chocolates is likely a guest here tonight. They know he didn’t overdose, which means their little plot failed.”

“He is still dead. This attempt may have gone sideways, but the end result is the same.”

Jorah nodded in acknowledgment. “True…but whoever sent the chocolates will want to collect the evidence. Attempted murder is still a crime, especially when the intended victim is found dead.” He fixed Tyrion with a stern look, pointing a finger at the small man’s chest. “You are not to speak a word of this to anyone. If we are to find out who sent the box, we leave everything in place and wait for the owner to collect.”

Tyrion eyes lit up conspiratorially. He pinched his thumb and forefinger together and dragged them across his mouth. “My lips are sealed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wonky word support:
> 
> pie-eyed = intoxicated
> 
> Alright, let's take a vote...on a scale of 1 to 10, how sealed are Tyrion's lips? lol


	6. Chapter VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Forrest Gump wave*

Across town, a black town car sat parked on a vacant street, its engine running to combat the dark and damp. The combined efforts of the buzzing streetlamp outside and the car's flickering headlights were just enough to illuminate the large man lumbering down the alley.

Cersei drummed her fingers over the armrest impatiently, keen eyes boring into the approaching figure. He was a mountain of a man, built by layers of thick muscle. Not a bone in his body was elegant or nimble. Yet, what he lacked in natural grace, he made up for in brutal strength—arguably his best feature, even if it was more intimidation than admiration.

Her pensive silence was broken as the man yanked the passenger-side door open and squeezed into the front seat. The entire vehicle shifted beneath his weight. The axles groaned in agony. When he finally settled, he turned his head towards her, face half hidden in the shadows. Although she couldn't see him clearly, she recognized the sour stench of sweat and smoke that followed in his wake.

Cersei dabbed a delicate hand beneath her nose before speaking, "I want the photographs, nothing more, nothing less." She lifted a folder from the seat beside her and held it out. "Put these in their place."

The man snatched the folder with an uncivilized grunt.

Fine by her—his silence was one of the reasons she preferred his service. Chatty hires made for sloppy mistakes and unnecessary clean-up.

Cersei leaned back in her seat and gazed out the window beside her. A faint smile dusted her lips as she watched the buzzing streetlight flicker in rapid succession before extinguishing completely. "Do be discreet, won't you? I don't want to read about this on the front-page post tomorrow."

* * *

"Nearly everyone's arrived," Daenerys greeted Tyrion and Jorah with a half-panicked expression once they made their way back to the main foyer. In the short hour they had been absent, her friendly smile had deflated into a thin line of stress.

"Nearly everyone?" Jorah asked, hovering in the doorway to the dining room. He peered at the newly arrived guests.

Daenerys brushed an errant strand of hair from her face and shot him a pointed look. "Cersei."

Tyrion chuckled and waved his fingers. "As I said earlier…fashionably late." He stepped ahead of Jorah into the dining room, spreading his arms wide to make his grand entrance. "I hope you haven't started the party without me," he declared to the other guests, in a voice louder than necessary. He made to grab a glass of wine from Missandei but Jorah was quick behind him, plucking the drink out of reach before further damage could be done.

The last thing the man needed was more booze.

Unbothered, Tyrion moved further into the room, shaking hands with each guest—all of whom sat in opposite corners of the room. No one dared to approach the massive table set in the middle. Their eyes darted between each other, suspicious and wary. Self-preservation took the place of warm greeting.

The only enthusiastic party was Tyrion, who seemed to be handling his cocaine high with as much grace as Jorah had expected. With any luck the man's antics would be viewed as nothing more than his usual dog and pony show.

After reading the room with a playful grin, Tyrion made the first move towards the dining table and plopped down in the head seat. The rest of the room heaved a communal sigh as he dragged the chair across the floor, scraping wood against marble on a slow journey closer to the table.

Tyrion pressed his palms flat against the wooden surface and eyed the room sadly, like a forlorn actor ready to deliver his tragic monologue. "My sister's tardiness to this event of paramount importance is unforgivable. I am embarrassed on her behalf, truly. I only hope this doesn't dampen anyone's image of my beloved family. Despite appearances, we were not raised by a pack of wolves," he finished with a wink in Sansa's direction.

"A bit early in the evening for the unnecessary showmanship, isn't it, Tyrion?" the young woman asked, her eyes bright with amusement.

"Someone has to bring a little life to this party. Talk about walking into a room full of stiffs."

Varys pressed a hand to his brow wearily. "Now is not the time for jokes."

"Forgive me, old friend. I only meant to lighten the mood. Is it so wrong to celebrate life in face of death? Here we are…alive and well, gathered to mourn the passing of a dear companion. I don't see why we can't enjoy each other's company."

"Oh yes, let's gather around the dinner table and pretend we're not all suspects waiting to hang," Baelish cut in, shooting an accusatory look in Jorah's direction. "Perhaps we should sing a song or two while we await interrogation?"

Jorah crossed his arms. "These aren't interrogations. I am simply here to gather the facts and aid the police in their investigation."

"And isn't that a joke," Baelish mocked. "I wonder how many bumbling flatfoots it takes to pad the reputation of a disgraced cop."

"About as many gaudy suits it takes to disguise the desperation of a cheap businessman, I imagine," Jorah tossed back.

The other man leaned back in his chair, a near permanent smirk curving his lips into a humorless line. It took but one look to catch the shadow of anger hidden behind the clever mask. Words meant almost as much as reputation to a man like Baelish, who often mistook his own passion for ego as the weakness of all men.

With the grace of a man spent all his life handling people, Varys stood to cut through the rising tension. "Would it be too much trouble to request first bid in the hot seat, Inspector?" he asked Jorah, before turning to Daenerys with an apologetic look. "Dinner smells divine, but I cannot stay long. Time is of the essence when it comes to our mayor's endeavors."

* * *

"You don't seem the least bit surprised by my presence here tonight," Jorah stated once they were settled in the parlor. He crossed his legs and balanced his hat on one knee, eyeing the man across from him with guarded interest.

Varys had elected to sit in one of the single chairs in front of the massive window. The backdrop of fading sunlight filtered through the outer edges of his beige attire, giving off a glow soft enough to match his amiable expression. It was strange that in a city full of flashy colors, the mayor's closest advisor chose to blend into the background with bland hues and baggy suits.

"Should I be?" Varys responded airily, cradling his palms in his lap.

_Always a question for a question._

"I suppose there is little that slips past you and your friends."

The ghost of a smile lifted Varys' round cheek. "I didn't take you for a man who listens to rumors, Inspector."

"I was referring to your friends in the mayor's office, but I'd be more than happy to discuss the company you keep outside of work."

"I'm afraid I have little time for extracurriculars. My advisory duties keep me quite busy."

"A role you have held for some time now. I'm impressed that a man so passionate about politics has avoided the spotlight this long. With the mayor retiring soon, surely there's a reward awaiting her right-hand man?"

"I am a man of political background, yes, but my passions are not so vainglorious. The protection and preservation of our city, and her interests, take priority above all else."

Jorah hummed. "A true man for the people."

"A man _of_ the people perhaps."

Jorah raised his eyebrows but was careful not to allow a lull in conversation. Long silences wouldn't work well with a man who thrived in moments of quiet contemplation. Their discussion was already threatening to run in meaningless circles. "A life of service is not an easy one, passions aside."

"Spoken like a man who confuses service with sacrifice"—Varys lifted his shoulders slightly— "A leader must understand the needs of their people well enough to serve without draining the well."

"Ahhhh," Jorah breathed, tipping his head back. "I've forgotten the order of political bounty. Is it give-and-take or take until there is nothing left to give?" He paused a moment before adding, "Maybe that's a question better left to the people."

Varys gave no indication Jorah's words offended him, nor did he immediately refute their claim. Instead, he inhaled slowly and pressed his hands more firmly in his lap.

"The burdens of leadership are many. I daresay our mayor handles them well."

"Admirably well. Then again, Olenna Tyrell is not one to shy away from a challenge. That tenacity has been the defining feature of her time in office. A quality I'm sure she will look for in a successor…though some say she has already made up her mind."

"And here I thought you weren't one for gossip," Varys tilted his head to one side, as if observing something of interest. "Well…then I'm sure you have noticed the great deal of trust the mayor has placed in Miss Targaryen. Her plans are no secret, in that regard."

"Recent events haven't changed her tune? Viserys' death has caused waves."

"The mayor had little interest in Mr. Targaryen, despite his frequent transgressions and near constant harassment. She tolerated him out of respect for Miss. Targaryen, nothing more." For the first time since the start of the conversation, Varys' tone leveled into something other than calm diplomacy.

_Disapproval, maybe?_

"And you? What was the nature of your relationship with Viserys?" Jorah asked, skimming across the interview notes in his lap. He had already perused Detective Naharis' notes, which read more like a critical analysis of Varys' wardrobe than an actual character interview.

"Inspector…" Varys said, in a tone similar to that used with stubborn children. "My attendance at these dinners is mere formality. To say I had a relationship with Mr. Targaryen at all, would be a lie."

_And on and on it went._

After another twenty minutes, the interview yielded little more of value. Varys stuck to an internal and, no doubt, pre-planned script. His story fell in line with that of Tyrion, as he and nearly everyone else had been present for Viserys' mid-meal tantrum. Varys claimed to have left an hour later to meet with the mayor, leaving him conveniently absent at the time of the murder.

He failed to mention his encounter with Baelish, or any controversy involving the mayor's succession…not that Jorah had expected any different. The man kept his secrets locked away. To uncover those truths, Jorah would have to dig around the foundation of Westeros' political hive.

* * *

Tyrion felt like what he imagined drowning in a vat of wine would feel like, that's to say he felt a confusing amount of both pain and pleasure. He was a man standing on the edge of great danger, without the fear of falling. Was it a nightmare or long-awaited dream?

He recognized the familiar alcohol-induced haze curling in wisps around his mind, but there was something else as well, something far more urgent. It was a stronger sense of euphoria, one that encouraged a great distance from reality. His heart rate beat alongside that urgent hum, racing ahead of his own breathing. Anxiety he rarely experienced, clawed at his chest, and yet pleasure dulled the terror predating a sudden demise.

He wasn't so far gone as to not recognize the tremors and paranoia of a cocaine high. Truth be told, it wasn't his first run-in with the ol' nose candy—his youth had been a long stream of reckless experimentation—but he didn't make a habit of indulging in substances strong enough to make a man indifferent towards his own fate.

"I'm sure you have nothing to worry about," Tyrion assured, leaning heavily against the chair Petyr Baelish occupied. Whether these words were meant to comfort himself or the guilty-looking man beside him, he could not be sure. In an attempt to delineate the two, at least in his own mind, he squinted at Baelish and added, "Unless you have something to hide."

"Bold words coming from the fool already three sheets to the wind," Baelish replied, leaning away in slight disgust. It was the first time he had moved since entering the dining room.

Tyrion tried to straighten to full height, defensive on instinct.

_A fool? A bit off-kilter, sure. But a fool? Hardly._

Before he could rearrange his thoughts into a suitable insult—perhaps one targeting the man's obnoxious suits, because Mormont was right, they were impressively awful—a gentle hand pressed against his shoulder.

"Mr. Lannister, I have to ask that you not badger the other guests."

Tyrion squinted up into the kind face of Daenerys' personal assistant, Missandei. She was a constant at Dragon Manor, a balancing measure of calm in a home that often simmered in a state of unrest. Even in that moment, there was something about her gentle reproach that made it impossible to deny her request.

"Why don't I join you on a walk? I could use a breath of fresh air before dinner," she added, her tone twisting words of suggestion into quiet demand.

And here he had thought the young woman was nothing more than a poor little petunia in an onion patch…

Tyrion caught sight of Daenerys standing in the doorway. Her stern expression and crossed arms delivered a far more direct message.

_No petunias here_ , he thought, flashing an agreeable smile at their host.

"An unfair play, my dear. You know I'm weak to the wiles of a beautiful woman."

But what should've been a simple task, an enjoyable trek even, became incredibly difficult the moment Tyrion stepped outside. If his balance had been shoddy within the well-lit hallways of the manor, it was utterly disgraceful on natural ground. To make matters worse, the sky was no longer a patchwork of fading sunlight. Instead, it hosted a playground for mischievous shadows to run tricks between the trees.

Tyrion's eyes were slow to trace the movement around him and dizzy from trying. Missandei was courteous enough to slow her pace, but still he struggled to keep up.

He hadn't grown taller within the hour, that much was certain, and yet the ground seemed further away than before. Each step was a blind swing in the dark, carried on a silent prayer that he wouldn't trip over his own feet. Just to keep the world from spinning, he resorted to dragging his limbs along in a lazy shuffle.

Despite the unsteadiness in his legs, Tyrion kept his gaze fixed ahead. There was something strange in the air—a deliberate silence that warned they were not alone.

_Was it all in his mind?_

His uneasiness doubled as they approached the stable area.

Not one to put weight into old wives' tales or linger long on thoughts of the afterlife, Tyrion tried to shift his dodgy attention to the pleasant voice of his companion, who was busy relaying the history of the property (as if they both didn't know he had snooped every nook and cranny long ago)…but the night was dark, and he was riddled with drugs. How could he deny mysterious illusions?

Tyrion couldn't help but recall the last time he had roamed outside on a drunken escapade.

It hadn't ended well…

At least not for Viserys, who he had found dead as a doornail, face-down in a pool of his own blood.

Not ideal, to say the least.

And certainly not a fate he wanted for himself.

Unfortunately, if there was a man to linger in the land of the living, simply to terrorize those who had wronged him, it was Viserys Targaryen. Without a doubt.

Tyrion shivered.

Nothing would sober him up quicker than a sudden ghostly appearance from the late Targaryen heir. The man's slate eyes had been haunting enough in life…he had no desire to encounter them in death.

Missandei seemed to sense his disquiet, for instead of continuing on a straight path, she turned away from the sloping landscape and led them towards the front drive, where moonlight didn't get lost in the trees and light streamed through large, glass windows.

Tyrion would've felt comforted, if not for the towering dragon statue guarding the front of the manor. Its amber eyes followed his every move, the breadth of its ebony wings enough to engulf him.

Even though the majestic creature's jaw remained tipped open to the sky, no water escaped. The old fountain had run dry with the death of its former master.

Still, there were old stories about the statue—spun by children in the schoolyard and men laboring at the docks—that spoke of the great creature taking flight during the night, only to return before dawn. Some claimed to have seen the statue move, others claimed to have observed its jaws stained black from soot and fire.

Rational minds took these in as silly tales designed to entertain in times of despair—most of these legends had been birthed in the midst of war, when people had searched the sky for a savior and found none, least of all the dragon's master—and yet Tyrion couldn't help but consider that like all rumors in Westeros, there was a bit of truth behind the glitzy words. It was the childish part of him, the part that had always sought refuge in fantastical stories.

Perhaps the dragon had never found its rider…perhaps like all of them, the beast was searching for something greater.

As they walked closer to the statue, Tyrion pressed onto his toes to get a better look; he had always been attracted to things dark and dangerous. The golden light from the manor's front window stretched across the dragon's face, illuminating sharp eyes and teeth hidden behind smooth scales.

Tyrion stepped away from Missandei and moved to the backside of the statue. He admired the stone beneath its clawed feet, where elegant words were carved in a foreign language. He made to circle the figure again and ask Missandei for their translation, but his attention caught on something else.

The statute had shifted.

Where there had once been two powerful legs, a third now stood, caught between the massive tail and outstretched wings.

Tyrion shook his head.

Another shadow moved.

He stumbled backwards.

Missandei yelped.

And a very human fist collided with the side of his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive Tyrion's dramatic woe-is-me attitude. He has had a rough night. 
> 
> Also, the Cersei situation is a bit of a set-up for a (possible) second-part series, so don't get too too distracted by it. Sorry about the lack of Jorah/Dany this chapter...but SOON
> 
> Also, also, thanks for reading, detectives *insert finger guns and finger snapping*


	7. Chapter VII

_1938 (Two years earlier)_

_All he heard was the roar of the car's engine, as he pressed his foot more firmly on the gas and pushed the pedal to the floorboard._

_All he saw was red, both in the color of the taillights ahead and the blinding haze of his own anger._

_All he could smell was Lynesse's lingering perfume—patchouli and gardenia—spicy and sweet and suffocating. Not even the harsh scent of burning rubber could overpower it._

_His grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles turned white. His eyes drilled into the car ahead until it became a blur of light and color. He ignored the reflections on the road and the flashes of passing objects in his periphery. He ignored the signs warning against reckless behavior. After all, he had disregarded multiple, more obvious, warning signs over the years, what were a few more?_

_Another roar from the engine, another pang of regret._

_Jorah's jaw clenched tighter as crooked windshield wipers failed to clear his line of sight. He didn't blink until his eyes burned. Nor did he breathe, lest his pounding heart fail him._ _Although in many ways it already had._

_You fool, he cursed. And that self-hating fury fueled him like a match to flame._

_He wasn't a man prone to anger. In fact, it was difficult to recall the last time he had felt the budding heat of rage. Had it been in the midst of battle? Had it been while crouched low in the muddy graves of fallen comrades and enemies?_

_No…when he dreamt of war, when he remembered the eyes of the enemy, he felt something akin to sorrow, even guilt, but not anger._

_Even now, he couldn't name the recipient of his anger. Was it Lynesse? Was it himself? Why did desperation linger so closely to self-proclaimed ire?_

_Jorah shook his head and focused on the bend in the road ahead. He had one chance to stop her, one opportunity to save what was left of himself before her—a time where things had been simple, and he had been good._

_She had hurt people._

_She had hurt him._

_Instead of slowing into the unnatural curve of pavement, Jorah lifted his foot off the accelerator, shifted gears, and urged the car forward at full throttle. The old model shuttered in protest but obeyed. Rubber tires squealed and burned black tracks onto the road._

_The vehicle ahead, the one occupied by his fiancé and her sordid lover, attempted to maneuver the corner at the same speed. Unfortunately, the driver didn't account for weight or weather. Jorah watched the desperate flicker of brake lights, right before the car's back end swung wide. Unable to gain traction on the slick road, the driver jerked the steering wheel in panic, forcing the car into a spin. Right in the middle of the street. Right in Jorah's path._

_He swore loudly and turned in the opposite direction, driving off road to avoid a collision. His tires found purchase in the dirt, but his foot stumbled over the brake. With one quick glance at his feet, Jorah missed the opportunity to prevent another collision, this time with a tree. His body jerked forward as the front end of his car struck a tall oak. Metal scraped against metal. The vehicle settled with a final, miserable groan to match the sound that escaped from Jorah's lips._

_Disoriented but seemingly unharmed, Jorah wrenched open the door and stumbled out. His shoes sank into the mud. His ears rang. Raindrops sizzled on the overheated hood of the car. The smoke that rose as a result dissipated beneath heavier curtains of water._

_Jorah squinted through the dark, moving forward without thought. The fading taillights on the road were already out of reach. Apparently, the driver had regained control of the vehicle and without a second glance in Jorah's direction, sped off into the night._

_Gone was the hope that had spurred him on moments earlier. He had nothing left, not even the energy necessary to cling to residual anger. All that remained was the hollowness that would mold him into a man of regret._

_Eventually, he found himself back on the road, eyes fixed in search of invisible lights. There he stood, in the pouring rain, until his body shook, and his drenched suit weighed heavy._

_Jorah glanced back at his car and debated leaving it there. What was left but a smoking, heaping mess? Another mistake in a painfully long line of poor decision-making._

_He should've replaced the car when the engine first caused trouble._

_He should've acknowledged the warning signs._

_He should've trusted his head over his heart._

"Penny for your thoughts?" a soft voice broke through the silence.

Jorah turned away from the window and found Daenerys hovering near the doorway, an unsure smile tugging at her lips. He blinked a few more time to banish memories of the past.

"If only they were worth as much." he replied, giving up a small smile of his own.

She eyed him for another long minute before moving further into the room. Her eyes roamed the handcrafted bookshelves built into the walls and sparked with long-held admiration. Clearly, the first-floor library was a treasured room. She didn't gaze at the other decorous features of the mansion with half as much joy. In fact, the other rooms of the house only seemed to bring about sadness. Daenerys walked the halls like a stranger in her own home.

Not for the first time, Jorah wondered about Daenerys and the sadness hidden in her eyes. Did no one else see beyond the charming smiles?

He dropped his gaze. _Not your business_ , he reminded himself.

Yet, when he looked up again, he found her standing only a few feet away, studying him as closely as he had studied her. They both blinked, surprised by the other. And for a moment, there was an almost comical rhythm to how their eyes danced in a circle, desperate to avoid contact.

Jorah cleared his throat and reached for the unopened envelope in his jacket pocket. "Miss. Targaryen, I was wondering if you knew anything about this?"

Daenerys took the letter. A small, disgruntled breath escaped as she recognized the emblem of the Iron Bank printed neatly in black ink across the front.

"Viserys?" she asked.

Jorah pressed his lips together and gave a short nod.

She thumbed her finger beneath the lip and opened the letter. Her eyes roamed the page. The more she read, the deeper her frown became. When she finished, she held it out to him.

"Well, I can't say I'm shocked by my brother's behavior, but I have no idea as to why the Iron Bank would even _consider_ granting him a loan."

Jorah read the letter. Sure enough, in clear writing, was a loan approved for one Viserys Targaryen. He whistled quietly as he eyed the sum.

Daenerys had a point—the Iron Bank didn't make a habit of dealing in unreliable clients. They were strict and unforgiving in all matters of finance. Viserys certainly hadn't been charming enough to woo the money loose, so how had he fooled the big bank? More importantly, what had he needed the money for? His father had stashed away enough cash to keep the family afloat for decades.

_Unless it was a matter of discretion._

"Where did you find it?" Daenerys asked.

Jorah brushed his hand against the back of his neck sheepishly. "Your father's old office."

Her eyebrows lifted, surprised.

"It was an…unexpected detour with Tyrion."

She made an exasperated sound. "Of course. The professional snoop." Her head tilted to the side. "What's with him anyway? He seems more excitable than usual."

Jorah grimaced. "There was a situation in the office, but it's being handled."

Daenerys frowned, clearly displeased with the lack of information. She crossed her arms slowly.

"Don't worry, Miss Targaryen, everything is under control," he assured and then, in a move that was a bit unfair, added, "Trust me."

The effect was immediate, as her arms dropped, and her expression softened. "I'm sorry. Of course, I trust you. I just worry, is all." She sighed and brushed her hair away from her face. "Gods, I haven't been up there in years," she murmured, more to herself than to him.

Jorah watched her with patient eyes, waiting. She glanced at him once, twice, before taking a seat on the armrest of the leather chair behind her.

"Dear old dad never let anyone near that study, least of all his children. For some reason, even though he has been gone for years, I've stayed away. A bit cowardly, I know—a grown woman afraid to anger her dead father—but something always keeps me away."

"I take it Viserys didn't share your reservations."

That earned a bitter laugh.

"He was up there the day our father died, never one to hesitate in taking what he felt belonged to him. I think part of it was spite. Most evenings, he disappeared up there after drinking and partying. I never intervened. It was always easier to let him wreak havoc alone than to try and confront him face-to-face," Daenerys said, her voice thick. She peered up at Jorah through watering eyes. There was a plea behind the sadness, a look of guilt over things she couldn't put words to. Something he understood all too well. "He was my brother…I should have done more. He was never good on his own, not even when we were children. If I had gotten him help, he wouldn't have—"

"No," Jorah stopped her. He took a step forward, his hands itching to reach for her. But he stopped himself from acting the fool; he could comfort her just fine with words. "Daenerys…"

Her eyes jumped to his, surprised. It was the first time he had addressed her by her first name. For a moment, she looked pleased at the change, but then shook her head. "Jorah, you don't understand…"

"Daenerys," he repeated, with more surety. "Viserys may have been your brother, but he was his own man. You can't fault yourself for his decisions." Jorah's gaze drifted to the window for the second time that evening. "We can't force people to change, no matter how much we want to, no matter how much we care for them," he murmured, and then shifted her eyes back to her, trying for a lighter tone. "Besides, if there is one thing this investigation has proven true, it's that no one has it all together. Everyone's life is a bit of a mess. Take Tyrion for example."

She laughed a little at that, eyes brightening beneath the mark of tears.

Wordlessly, Jorah tugged a handkerchief from his chest pocket and held it out. The small piece of fabric was aged and out of fashion but remained a permanent part of his attire. He had carried it since he was a boy, ever since the day his mother and father gifted him his first suit. _It seems my little boy is not so little anymore_ , his mother had said, voice wavering between pride and tears. _You look so handsome, sweetheart._ _Jeor, doesn't he look handsome?_

Although the suit had come from the store—at a cost his parents could barely afford—the handkerchief had been made by his mother's hand. Her talented needle had woven his initials into the simple fabric, with a tall bear stitched beside the elegant lettering. That day, after his father had left the room, his mother had tucked the material into his pocket with a wink, patting it over his heart—where it remained, long after he outgrew the suit and long after both his parents were gone.

Perhaps it was nothing more than a sentimental reminder of where he came from, but it brought him great comfort. It was one of the few things he had left from his childhood, other than fading memories.

Daenerys straightened and took the handkerchief with a grateful smile. She dabbed beneath her eyes and pink-tinged nose. When she went to return it, her eyes roamed the careful stitching. She swiped her thumb over the bear before placing it back in his palm.

"Thank-you."

Jorah nodded and silence settled between then again, more naturally than before. Instead of dodging his gaze, as she had done earlier, Daenerys seemed intent on holding it.

"You know, I've been conducting an investigation of my own," she said, taking a step closer to him.

"Oh? And what exactly have you been investigating?"

"This and that," she waved her hand to punctuate each word, eyes glittering with familiar mischief. "I've been carefully observing a friend of mine and I must admit, I can't quite figure him out. You see, he tries to be a rough-and-tough kind of fella, but I know a heart of gold when I see one."

Jorah frowned, confused.

Her eyes drifted up to his hat and then back down to his face, in one deliberate motion. "He wears the hell out of a fedora." She grinned, eyes dropping to his pocket. "And carries around a fancy little notebook…"

_Oh._

Jorah's mouth slipped open as realization struck.

_Ohh…_

He relaxed, willing to play her little game, if only to keep her smile in place. "Alright then, _Inspector_ , what have you discovered about this friend of yours?"

On her slow walk towards him, the tips of her fingers danced along the edge of a nearby bookcase. "Well, he's a bit of a stick-in-the-mud…former military, all serious and stuffy...you know the type."

"Mhmmm," Jorah hummed, amused.

"But I bet he lets his hair down on occasion," she added, stopping in front of him.

"Anything else?"

The teasing disappeared and her expression grew fond. "He doesn't smile much, which is a damn shame because he has a wonderful smile." Jorah felt the tips of his ears grow warm. "But I know he can"—Daenerys lifted a hand to lightly tap the laugh lines stretching from the outer corner of his right eye—"these tell me so."

He felt the sudden urge to take a step back, not because he wanted to get away from her—quite the opposite, really—but because the strength of his desire to have her near compelled him to stay away.

Conflicted, he remained in place.

"I think it's been a while since he has had reason to smile," she murmured, dropping her hand from his cheek. A strange cluster of emotion passed over her face, and for a moment, he thought she would pull away. But as quickly as it came, the look vanished. Something else took its place. Something that looked a lot like unguarded interest.

Jorah swallowed heavily.

Part of him begged for professionalism, with warnings of past heartache. The other part guided him towards words of new affection, words that would no doubt flow naturally from his lips. It was a question of what he wanted more. And his heart knew the answer.

Jorah's gaze automatically dipped to her lips. Then back up again. Daenerys noticed the move and matched it with one of her own, leaning forward to press her palm against his chest.

"You haven't asked if I completed my investigation," she murmured.

"Forgive me, Inspector. Have you solved the case?" Jorah bent his head closer. The brim of his hat almost brushed the top of her head.

"I think the evidence speaks for itself," Daenerys grinned. Then, after a pause, seemed to realize a more direct approach was needed. "I like you, Jorah. I like you a lot."

 _I like you too, Daenerys. More than I should,_ he wanted to say. But there was the matter of words and things that never sounded right when put to them. He debated the forwardness of action over voice, going back and forth between the two in a familiar war of head and heart.

By the time Jorah opened his mouth to speak, it wasn't his voice that escaped. Instead, a female shriek cut through the room, carried on a breeze that filtered in through the window behind them. Jorah jerked back instinctively and met Daenerys' wide eyes.

"Missandei," she gasped, recognizing the sound.

"It came from out front," Jorah stated, already moving towards the door. Once he rounded the corner into the main corridor, he burst into a run, passing Sansa and Varys as they poked their heads out of the dining room. He yanked the front door open and nearly tripped over the stairs. Off balance, he leapt down the last few steps.

He looked towards the open yard and then to the front drive, searching for the young woman. Near the ancestral statue stationed in front of the mansion, Jorah caught sight of moving silhouettes. Two figures stood, while a third lay on the ground.

Jorah made towards the group, just as the front door opened behind him. The light from the main foyer burst through the doorway, bathing the figures in light. He spotted Tyrion on the ground, cursing and bleeding from his face. Missandei stood over him, frozen in terror. An unfamiliar man moved towards her.

"Hey!" Jorah shouted, striding across the gravel path. His eyes flashed angrily in the dark.

Both Missandei and the attacker turned towards him in surprise. While the young woman looked relieved to see him, the stranger's eyes widened in panic. When Jorah moved closer the man shoved Missandei forward and burst into a run.

Jorah caught the young woman's arm lightly to try and stop her fall. He paused just long enough to stabilize her, before chasing after the suspect.

Daenerys shouted after him, but Jorah kept on.

Instead of weaving a path back towards the main road, the man sprinted for the woods situated on the opposite side of the property. Jorah was grateful he had moseyed down to the stables in days earlier, for the ground began to dip, and he was forced to rely on memory to remain upright. Still, the further they ran, the darker it became. The only thing that kept him on path was the heavy breathing of the man in front of him.

Jorah gained some ground as they approached the edge of the pond. He spotted a narrow path between the water and trees, barely visible among tall cattails and marshy reeds.

_A small window of opportunity._

The land was flat and open, but only for a few hundred meters. Once in the woods, his visibility would diminish. Everything would become an obstacle. And since Jorah didn't like the idea of getting clocked by a tree, he had to end the chase soon.

 _Shortcut it is then,_ he decided.

Instead of following on the suspect's heels, he tore away and cut through the overgrown trail. Wiry stalks and massive leaves clawed at him, but he plowed through them quickly. The ground was soft beneath his feet. One misstep and he would sink into the thick mud that lined the water's edge. 

All he needed was for the other man to stay on course.

Sure enough, as the trail ended, it led out onto the rounded edge of the pond, just before the treeline began. Jorah pushed past the last branch and listened for hurried footsteps. The moment his ears picked up the sound, he stepped out onto the main path.

Jorah lunged forward and rammed his shoulder into the man, pushing him towards the pond. It was a lot easier to stop a suspect once they smacked into a wall of water.

Unfortunately, in what was likely a blind grab for safety, the man's fingers latched onto Jorah's arm and pulled him on the same path into the water. There was no time for Jorah to wrench himself free.

_Shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! 
> 
> There will eventually be a full explanation of Jorah's past, but for now I'll just tease you with it. *laughs maniacally* 
> 
> Side note: Unofficial theme song for this chapter is "Run Boy Run" by Woodkid...cause boy oh boy, did Jorah do a lot of running lol. Double chase feature.


	8. Chapter VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voila! An update! *dramatically withdraws showy curtain*
> 
> You may have noticed I put a number to the final chapter count, so we are nearing the end of this tale. Four chapters left! I’m as nervous as you are, trust me :)
> 
> Also, just as a side note, the pond on the Targaryen property is no koi fish pond. Imagine more of a man-made lake, in terms of depth and size. And as always, thanks for reading, you little sleuths you <3

There was a moment of complete stillness before gravity dragged him downward. One brief moment where he was weightless without concern…lost to some strange lapse in reality. The sky spun overhead in a dizzying array of starlight and darkened clouds, yet he remained fixed in place. If he had called out in surprise when his fall first began, no one would have heart it, for there was no air left to give way to sound. Whatever breath his lungs had clung to was long gone, having fluttered off to join the howling wind.

For that one moment, he was adrift…

But then the hand that had grabbed him tightened into a bruising grip. Without warning, his body lurched back into motion, falling in tandem with another.

In a final attempt to subdue the suspect before they disappeared beneath the water’s surface, Jorah slammed his elbow backwards, making contact with the man’s stomach, just as his back struck the water. A subsequent groan of pain was cut short by the roar of water in his ears.

Although the fall wasn’t far, the frigid water stole his breath like that of a twenty-foot tumble. His eyes and mouth snapped shut against the taste and smell of stagnant water. Adrenalin froze, limbs shook, and flesh grew numb. His heart and lungs seized beneath the pressure to inhale sharply, if only for half a breath of fresh air, no matter the consequence. Some internal voice, an echo of a conversation held long ago, warned against it.

_“Don’t bow to the Gods just yet...fight back, Jorah. Fight back as if there’s nothing to you but flesh and bone.”_

His eyes opened enough to make out the rippled edge of water above. If he could just reach—

With a few kicks, he managed to surge back towards the surface, but that desperate grip held fast, clawing its way around his neck. Sharp fingernails dug into his skin. Jorah released a frustrated growl as his lungs began to burn. Black dots danced in his vision. If he allowed himself to sink a little further, he could touch the bottom of the pond and pull them _both_ to safety. Afterall, he wasn’t looking to drown the man, certainly not when he was the first real break in the case.

_For crying out loud, hold still,_ Jorah thought as the man continued to thrash about in panic, causing the water to bubble and stir around them.

Fortunately, with these frenzied movements came a loss of energy. The hand around Jorah’s neck loosened just enough for him to slip his arm up and away. He whirled around. The man reached for him again, eyes wide with panic, desperate for an anchor.

For the first time, Jorah got a good look at the attacker and realized his mistake…the man wasn’t a man at all but a boy—tall and thin for his age, but a boy, nonetheless.

Some of the frustration eased out of Jorah. Instead of issuing a harsh response, like the sharp jab to the face he had planned, he grabbed the kid’s front collar to stabilize them both. His feet touched solid ground long enough for him to push off towards the murky edge of the water. The combined weight of their clothing slowed his efforts and his feet slipped around in his shoes, making each kick more difficult than the last. But then, after one final, burning stride, Jorah broke through the surface. Air erupted into his lungs and he inhaled greedily, tipping his head back with the swell of relief.

His peace was short-lived; however, as the boy began to squirm in his grasp. “Let me go, I didn’t do any—”

“Shut your trap before I throw you back under,” Jorah cut him off succinctly. The words were an idle threat, of course, but Jorah’s expression must have said otherwise, because the boy fell silent almost immediately.

_Better,_ Jorah sighed, pulling them both to shore.

“Inspector!” A man called out to him from somewhere on solid ground. Jorah peered through the dark, trying to place the unfamiliar voice.

A lone man appeared between the cattails, pushing the overgrown brush aside to clear a path towards them. The sloped land made it difficult for him to climb down. “Here, let me—” He extended a hand, moving it back in forth to indicate his point: he was there to help. Jorah had no reason, or desire, to deny the assistance. Their little impromptu swim had left him exhausted and already, the cold air was starting to seep into his bones.

“No more funny business,” Jorah warned the boy, just in case he thought it wise to try his luck against the newcomer. Though, based on the man’s build and air of authority, Jorah was sure the end result would be the same.

Confident enough in that, Jorah shoved the boy forward. Then, with hands planted precariously in soft mud, he hauled himself out of the water, grimacing all the way. Once on his feet, he brushed the back of his hands across his shoulders and chest, wiping away algae and grime. There would be no salvaging his leather oxfords, but perhaps there was still hope for his suit. Jorah paused long enough to shake the water out of his shoes and jacket—feeling a bit like a shivering mutt—before trudging up the hill after the stranger, who thankfully maintained a strong hold on their new prisoner.

There was little time to question the man’s identity or reason for being down by the water—those would come later. For now, Jorah would settle for a call to the police station. The least Barristan could do was swing around with a black and white to collar the kid, considering Jorah had done most of the leg work. Perhaps their grizzled police chief could squeeze some truth out with the threat of a couple nights in lockup. Jorah doubted it would take much more. In truth, the boy already looked ready to squeal like a pig.

Jorah puffed out a breath and instinctively reached up to adjust his hat... _wonderful_ , he thought, as his hand fell against his head instead of the well-worn fedora. He glanced back to the pond. There was no sense searching for it now. It was probably long gone, lost to the wind or water.

His heart lurched suddenly at the thought of something greater lost, something he would go back for, even if it meant a second swim. With numb fingers, he reached into his jacket pocket…and sighed in relief—the old handkerchief had survived the fall. He tucked it back into the space beside his heart for safe keeping.

A bit tired and a bit wary, Jorah fell back a little on the walk, watching the figures ahead closely. Which only served to turn gratitude to suspicion. The stranger didn’t look back, nor did he stumble. Not even in the dark. He walked like a man comfortable with his surroundings, as though he had trekked that same path a thousand times before. In fact, he hardly veered off course at all. At least not until they made it back to the front drive, where the rest of the party stood huddled outside. Then and there, he came to a sudden halt.

“Missandei,” he gasped, striding ahead, nearly forgetting the boy in his grip.

The young woman’s eyes rose to stare at the man, brightening in areas where fear once stood. The pain in her expression vanished. Daenerys smiled softly and dropped her arm from where it lay draped across her friend’s shoulders.

Jorah watched the exchange of emotions between the two, taking in the man’s fervent worry and Missandei’s soft reassurance. She pointed to her knees, where fabric was torn and skin was scraped, to show proof that all was well, except for minor injury. But the sight seemed to have the opposite effect, for the man’s fist curled around the boy’s collar until his knuckles turned white. Missandei was quick to intervene, pressing her palm to his shoulder. She murmured something in a foreign language and although Jorah didn’t understand a word, he recognized the look that passed between the two.

A look of love.

Suddenly, he was sure of the man’s identity, even before Missandei spoke the name aloud.

_Grey Worm_.

Daenerys’ hard-to-find stableman.

A few questions grew to a dozen. Where had he been all day? Why had he been wandering around in the dark?

Jorah watched more looks pass between the two lovers, this time with an added glance towards their employer. All of worry, fear, and subsequent relief…and something else as well, something he couldn’t quite place. He traced the movements with his eyes, lost to whatever deeper conversation was being shared.

A gentle hand pried him from his thoughts. “Are you alright?” Daenerys asked softly, genuinely, even though there was amusement in her eyes as she reached up to brush a clump of _something_ from his hair.

“A bit soggy, but none the worse for wear.”

She smiled, relieved, and let her hand fall to his chest. Her fingers brushed against his shirt for a moment, back and forth, before she pulled them away, almost reluctantly. Their eyes held, both pondering what had taken place in the library not so long ago, or rather what had _almost_ taken place, what _would_ have taken place, if not for the interruption. Part of him was grateful for fate’s intervention. They hadn’t so much as kissed. His heart hadn’t crossed the point of no return. He could still turn back.

“Oh, yes, I am quite alright,” Tyrion spoke up loudly, from where he lay against the statue, clutching a bloody nose. “Thank-you all for your concern.”

Jorah and Daenerys both glanced his way, but it was Sansa who went to his aid. The young woman stepped out of the front doorway with an exasperated laugh and helped him up. Once firmly on his feet, Tyrion pointed an accusatory finger at Jorah.

“You should be thanking me.”

“Thanking you? What for?”

Tyrion waved his hand at the boy. “I slowed him down, didn’t I?”

Jorah snorted. “That’s not true by any stretch of the imagination.”

“Well…” Tyrion waved his hand towards himself, beckoning gratitude that would never come.

“You did nothing but get knocked over by a child.”

“That is—unfair! He’s more than a child,” Tyrion whirled around to look at the boy. “What are you, seventeen? Eighteen?” The boy nodded on eighteen. Tyrion glanced back at Jorah, with his arm extended in exasperation. “See? A grown man in his own right.” Tipping his head up, he muttered a bit more to himself, the true victim. “It’s fine, I’ll simply add insult to my list of injuries for the evening…”

Jorah’s eyes rolled skyward and in doing so, latched onto something far more interesting than Tyrion’s incessant jabber—a strange light flickered overhead, accompanied by a shadow that darted across the upper floor of the mansion, visible only through the circular window that framed Aerys’ office. A wave of uneasiness passed over him.

_What in the seven hel—_

He looked to the others, counting heads in his mind. Sansa, Tyrion, Missandei. With Varys gone, that left only…

_Baelish_.

* * *

Not for the first time that evening, Daenerys found herself shouting after Jorah as he bolted off into the unknown with nothing more than a quick “Call Barristan!” thrown over his shoulder. Confused and a bit frazzled, Daenerys hustled after him, watching him disappear up the stairs, before settling in to make the call herself.

Unfortunately for her, there were no direct lines. So, instead of talking to Chief Selmy, she found herself in a longer than necessary conversation with the ever-so-charming Detective Naharis. When she finally managed to cut through his suggestions of “how may I serve you?” and “this line is for emergencies, doll, how about I give you my private number?”, her desperate pleas earned nothing more than a sorrowful sigh from the other end of the line. 

_Gods forbid he be asked to do his job…_

Thanks to Jorah, she had little information to provide by way of explanation. He hadn’t paused long enough to share anything, so she couldn’t relay the cause of emergency. It was this small detail that seemed to amuse the detective, much to her displeasure. No doubt, she sounded like a bumbling idiot. But she trusted Jorah, and if he said to call, she would call. And Detective Naharis would listen. Or so help her—

“Yeah, yeah, listen, doll, I’ll be there in a jiffy. No need for excuses. If you wanted me to swing by, all you had to do was ask.”

Daenerys thanked him through gritted teeth.

“No worries. As I always say, If you’re an able grable, I’m your man—”

She hung up the receiver, cutting off the rest of his words. Hopefully, the man drove faster than he talked.

Unsure of what to do next, Daenerys paced below the stairwell, debating whether to follow after Jorah. He had told her to call…which she had. Really, he hadn’t told her _not_ to go after him. Perhaps he expected her to? If not, she would feel foolish, especially if it were nothing more than a double-check on some evidence. His face, though. His face had told her otherwise.

Something was wrong.

_Oh, if he’s in trouble…_

The thought alone was enough to send her charging up the stairs, foolishness be damned. When Daenerys arrived on the top landing, she glanced back to see Missandei in the hallway near the front door.

“Wait outside for the police!” she called out, before continuing her mad dash in the dark. Clearly, Jorah’s methods had rubbed off on her. Though, she was sure Missandei’s expression lacked the annoyance of her earlier one, considering her friend was far more patient. 

_Which way did he go?_

Daenerys bounced on her toes, debating her next direction. Left or right? This floor or the next? She waited and listened, desperate for a sound that would give her cue to move one way or the other. The air remained quiet though, except for the puffs of her own heaving breathing.

And then she saw it—light filtering in through the glass windows of the second-floor library. It was soft and faint, just a glowing reflection across the stone floor, but it was enough to catch her attention. A slight breeze drifted in from a cracked window, brushing across her bare arms to send shiver down her spine. The white curtains above the window rustled silently, billowing and waving, like an invisible hand drawing her in.

It was possible the curtain had merely been pulled away on Jorah’s earlier adventure with Tyrion. Nevertheless, she walked forward, lured in by some unfamiliar tug of the heart.

She slipped through the doorway and into the massive library—a room she hadn’t ventured to in years. She preferred its downstairs counterpart, where things were brighter, and she felt less haunted by the memory of her father...and now brother.

Moonlight broke through the windows to run across the bookshelf-lined walls, casting heavy shadows that loomed over her. The cloth-covered furniture lined the center of the room like eerie ghosts drawn to attention. It felt awfully crowded for an empty room.

Peering up for only a moment, she found the one artifact she despised most of all—the dragon head mounted upon the far wall. It wasn’t the dragon she hated, per say…but its eyes, crimson and bold, followed her every movement, judging, daring, accusing. Something about it felt all too human.

Suddenly, the sound of muffled voices filtered across the room. Daenerys squinted through the darkest corner and spotted an even fainter light, yellow in color, beneath the largest bookcase. It was the entrance to her father’s study; she knew it well.

Hushed voices in the dark tugged a memory from her, one of a much younger self huddled in the same position beneath the staircase, listening to her father and brother argue.

_“You snivel and whine like a child. Do you think you deserve this company? All that I have built?”_

_“I only thought—”_

_“Thought?” A cold laugh echoed across the room. “Save that for clever minds, boy.” Another laugh, another mock. “Gods, I bet you thought yourself so cunning, didn’t you? You thought, what? That you’d seize some power for yourself?”_

_“Father, I only wished to honor our family name. I—”_

_“Honor? You’ve brought me nothing but embarrassment! Get out of my sight…I can’t bear to look at you. If I wanted tears, I would have called for your sister._

_“But—”_

_“Out!”_

In those moments, Daenerys had pitied her brother, pitied them both. Then and only then, their goals had been aligned, with the deep desire to find some semblance of love in their father’s eyes. She had wanted the same from Viserys, but their father’s anger had always spurred a trickle-down effect, with her at the bottom to receive its brunt force. Instead of allowing comfort, Viserys unleased his fury upon her. It was the only time he felt big.

_Not anymore,_ she thought, and immediately hated herself for it. Guilt, guilt, it had followed her all her life.

Daenerys took a deep breath.

_Don’t look back…_

Shoulders set, she crept closer to the hidden entrance, tilting her head to listen to the conversation above. Although she couldn’t make out any words, she recognized Jorah’s low rumble. The other voice sounded somewhat familiar, but she couldn’t put a name to it.

Careful not to cause any abrupt noises, she pulled the shelf open a little wider, just enough for her to slide through. Without looking away from the door ahead, she pressed her foot against the first step. Old wood groaned beneath the pressure. She froze, waiting to be discovered.

Daenerys released a breath as the door remained shut. Another deep inhale. She pressed her hand against the wall for balance as she lifted her legs, one at a time, to tug off her heels. Hopefully, her bare feet would fare better against the old staircase. She dropped one of the shoes by the entrance and clutched the other in a tight fist.

Slowly, she climbed the stairs, listening to the voices as they grew louder. Once she reached the final step, she paused, but only for a moment. Not nearly long enough. Had she taken the time to listen and observe, to assess the situation before rushing in, she would’ve recognized the danger that lay ahead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wonky word support:
> 
> Able grable – can simply mean a beautiful woman, but is also known to reference a promiscuous gal (I’ll let you guess which way Daario was using it).
> 
> And I know, I know, I'm sorry for another sorta cliffhanger. But it's part of the genre, ya know? It can't be stopped!


	9. Chapter IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! Here's a somewhat prompt update for you wonderful humans. As a note, the events of the last chapter and this one overlap, with this one picking up Jorah's POV from the moment he dashes upstairs to the study. This update is pretty jargon heavy and I'm a frequent passenger of the dialogue struggle bus, so apologies in advance if there's any confusion. I hope you enjoy and thanks for tuning in! <3

Jorah cleared the final stairs to the study in two long strides, breathing heavily as he came to an abrupt stop in the doorway. “I should’ve known,” he huffed, recognizing the figure across the room, despite the dim lighting.

Baelish froze in place, his posture that of a man caught in the act—shoulders rigid, back straight, breath held. It took only a second for him to recover. A false smile curved his lips as he pivoted to face Jorah, one hand clutching a familiar box of chocolates while the other remained hidden from sight, buried deep in his pocket.

For a long moment, the room was silent except for the steady beat of water dripping from the hem of Jorah’s trousers. A small puddle had already stated to form on the floor around him.

“Well, you’re cleverer than you look.” Baelish finally spoke.

“And perhaps you’re not as clever as you think.”

They eyed each other carefully, both calculating the other’s move. Jorah stood in the path to freedom and Baelish knew it; his frequent glances at the door confirmed it. Surely, he understood that if it came to brute force, he would lose.

Baelish’s expression relaxed into what could have been mistaken for conviviality, if not for the malicious edge to his tone when he spoke, “Mormont, don’t make this more difficult than it has to be. We both know whose name carries more weight in this town.”

“That may be, but there’s still the matter of the law. You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I’ll let you talk it out with Chief Selmy. Gods know he has been dying to speak with you. What’s it been? Five years since the incident with the Starks?”

Baelish’s smile grew tight, more difficult to uphold. “I run a legitimate business and have done nothing wrong. The grudges of an old lawman won’t change that.”

“No, but they’ll certainly make things difficult. How much money will you lose once there’s a uniform posted outside every blind pig in town? Hard to swing dope when you have no customers.”

Jorah’s words must have struck a nerve, because Baelish’s only response was an impatient offer, “What’s it going to take, then? Money? Is that it?”

“I’m looking for the truth, not a payout,” Jorah scoffed.

“Oh please, your business troubles are no secret, Mormont. You took this case because you need the money. Whatever she’s paying you, I’ll double it. Just name your price…let me walk out of here today and you’ll be rewarded tomorrow.”

The proposition settled heavy in the air. Cheap. Insulting. Had Baelish known anything about Jorah, beyond the rumors printed on a few newspaper clippings, he would have never made the offer.

“I don’t have a price,” Jorah ground out, straightening to full height. “To some men, loyalty means something.”

“Is that all it is?” Baelish cocked his head to the side. “Loyalty?” His fingers thrummed against the box in his hand—a poor attempt to disguise another glance towards the door.

Jorah watched the movement and capitalized on the signal of rising anxiety. “It’s all falling apart, Baelish. The tricks, the manipulation…you’ve done nothing but prolong the inevitable.”

“What evidence do you have, _Inspector?_ A half-eaten box of chocolates and the ramblings of a drunken fool? You couldn’t hang your coat on that, let alone a murder case.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so quick to doubt…I’m sure the young boy downstairs will tell us _much_.” It was a haphazard guess, tossed out in the hope that it was at least half true. After all, Baelish was one of just two notorious men who liked to use children for dirty work. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

And there it was, the proof Jorah needed, plain as day in Baelish’s quick denial. The pieces started to come together to form an incredibly drawn-out puzzle. The boy. The chocolates. Viserys. All connected by one man.

“Did you put two and two together after you saw Tyrion stumbling about, or was this your plan all along?” Jorah asked, putting on a showy grin. “I bet you were sweating bullets when the police combed through this place after the body was found. Worried they might find your little gift?” He inclined his head towards the chocolates, which Baelish instinctively pulled closer to his chest. “Then tonight arrived and the manor was full of guests. All you had to do was buy yourself enough time to slink back up here and retrieve them. Hence the boy—your faulty little distraction, I assume.”

Jorah’s words were met with deafening silence. Really, what could the man say when he held a proverbial smoking gun in his hand?

Baelish seemed to realize all of this, as he stood there considering his options. It took another long moment, but the veil finally fell, and beneath it rose a new figure. No more false smiles or delicate words. No more feigning innocence. They had played their hands and Baelish stood on the losing side. His jaw clenched and his nostrils flared, in a rare show of true emotion.

Much like Jorah, he was a stubborn man. But for different reason. He wielded the trait like a weapon, hell-bent on survival. No matter the risk, no matter the price, he would trick and cheat and claw his way out of an early grave. In the end, he was all that mattered. For the sake of societal image, Baelish would prance about, obeying the rules of the game, but only for so long as they suited him. If push came to shove, he would _push_ and _shove_ just about anyone in his way. And that sort of desperation, violent or not, made for a dangerous enemy.

“Do you think you’re the first man to back me into a corner?” Baelish asked, shifting the hand still hidden in his pocket. “You, Stark, Selmy, you’re all the same. Big men. _Loyal_ men. Always clinging tightly to the banner of tradition, as it suites you best.” He didn’t move as he spoke, but the intent was there, visible in the slight lean of his torso. “For years, I’ve watched this town kiss the feet of unworthy men. And for what? Because they fought an enemy a world away?” He sneered, the heat of his anger crawling up his neck in a visible red line. “Medals won on foreign soil don’t make you king.”

It was the fractured piece of an old debate…an old wound carried by men like Baelish, who had tended to the herd while the dogs were away. The fact of the matter was that Baelish had been afforded a choice at a time when few others had the right to choose. No one wanted to go to war, certainly not Jorah, nor the dozens of men he had served with. And for all his weeps and moans about medals, neither had Petyr Baelish. The difference was he got to choose. In the end, while others trudged off to war, Baelish stayed home. It was a rare privilege, granted through a tribunal that deemed him essential to the Targaryen war effort, courtesy of Aerys himself. Baelish’s complaints had only arisen once the soldiers returned home. At which point his role as savior to the poor and hungry—to the women who had desired a shoulder to cry on while their husbands were away—was over.

“I’ve fought my own wars, Mormont, and I won’t be pushed aside by some cockamamie theory you’ve cooked up.”

“Well, if it’s all a load of hooey, you’ll have no problem handing over that box,” Jorah dared, while holding out an expectant hand.

Baelish made no effort to handover the evidence. Instead, he carried on with his sanctimonious speech, “I see you haven’t learned anything from your little escapade with Miss. Hightower. But a little word to the wise: a man who sits on his high horse for too long fails to see the knife until it’s plunged into his back.”

The mention of Lynesse was enough to raise Jorah’s hackles, which only fueled his impatience. “Gods, I don’t give a rat’s ass about some imaginary pissing contest you think we’re having here, nor do I care about whatever power—”

That earned a loud laugh, as Baelish’s words grew impassioned, leveling on some newfound superiority in which Jorah was the apparent fool. “It’s always about power, in one form or another—riches, knowledge, _love_. Fool though he was, even Viserys understood that. How do you think this all began? Why do you think he came to me in the first place?” Baelish paused, but not long enough to allow a response. “He wanted power, he wanted drugs. I could get him both.”

Jorah thought back to Tyrion’s words about conversations in the shadows. There was more to the story than just a supply-demand relationship. Why else go to such lengths to get rid of Viserys?

“But you didn’t, did you? Viserys wanted power, yes, but he never had any. I’m sure it didn’t take long for him to see through your false promises.” Jorah took a step forward, feeling the weight of their conversation swing in his favor. “So, what was it, hmm? What was it that drove you to deliver the coup de grace?” He asked, with a nod towards the box held tightly beneath Baelish’s arm. “Was it blackmail? Was the cleverest man in Westeros outsmarted by an immature playboy?”

Baelish raised an eyebrow. “Considering only one of us still stands today, I would question who outsmarted whom.”

“That’s sounds an awful lot like admission.”

“Just an observation, based on the facts.”

Jorah took another subtle step forward, shifting away from the door slightly. “And what exactly were you getting in return for such _generosity?_ I’m sure helping Viserys achieve his hopes and dream wasn’t your true intent.” The question was one of natural interest, but he had a feeling the response would prove damning. 

“That’s none of your concern.”

“You’re right.” Jorah bobbed his head. “I’m wasting my time here. You can explain yourself down at the station—”

“I have no intention of entertaining anymore of these ridiculous interrogations.”

“I wasn’t making a request. The police are already on their way…either you come with me now or make a fool of yourself later. It makes no difference to me.”

As he waited for the man’s response and likely surrender, Jorah sent up a silent prayer that Daenerys had managed to call the police. Though, he doubted Baelish would call his bluff.

But that was the thing about desperation, wasn’t it? Unpredictability. Jorah knew the dangers of letting desperation simmer, and yet still allowed himself to be lured into a vicious back-and-forth with a man who had everything to lose.

He realized his mistake then, as his eyes dropped to where Baelish’s hand had finally slipped free of his pocket. The outline of a knife was evident, clasped tightly in a closed fist. A menacing shadow flashed across the room as the light from the nearby lantern caught on the edge of the blade.

“I think you’ve overestimated your say in the matter, Inspector.” Baelish punctuated the words by tightening his grip on the knife.

Jorah’s eyes rose slowly, giving the man across from him ample time to drop the blade, should he choose to do so. All sense of compromise vanished shortly thereafter, as Jorah focused on the threat in front of him. “Careful now, Baelish…the noose is already around your neck. Don’t kick the bucket out from under your feet.”

Instead of yielding, Baelish raised the knife higher, pointing it at Jorah’s chest with heightened confidence, as if the sight of the weapon alone would be enough to send Jorah on his way, tail between his legs. But bravado couldn’t disguise inexperience, not to a trained eye. Certainly not when the man swayed with a sloppy stance, and barely managed to maintain an even grip on the hilt of the blade. 

“That’s a short dagger you’ve got there, Petyr. If you intend to do something with it, you’re going to have to get a lot closer.” His words were as much a dare as a warning. It wasn’t the first time a man had threatened Jorah with a knife, and provocation probably wasn’t the wise choice, but the reminder of the past was unpleasant enough to stoke his anger. The idea of knocking Baelish on his ass seemed a reasonable solution.

But before the man could respond, or act, another sound caught their attention—a soft creak from the doorway. Instinctively, Jorah turned to glance behind him—his first mistake, seeing as how it gave Baelish the chance to make good on his threats.

Somehow, Jorah recognized Daenerys’ steps before he saw her. Perhaps it was the scent of her perfume or the lightness of her gait. Regardless, he moved to stop her, to keep her out of the mess. But it was too late; the door opened wide and she stepped into view.

In a single glance, she took in the entire room, freezing at the open chaos in front of her. Her eyes flickered to him, to Baelish, to the knife, and finally, to the shortening distance between flesh and steel. Jorah read her fear, saw it before it escaped through her eyes. Heard it before she shouted his name in warning.

With his true purpose being escape, it was impossible to determine who Baelish intended to strike down in the process; both Jorah and Daenerys stood in his path. So, with Baelish in his periphery, Jorah stepped in front of Daenerys, pivoting at the last minute to face the oncoming attack. But as his arm came up to block the knife, Daenerys reached around him to lash out in an attack of her own.

Baelish yelped in both surprise and pain as the sharp heel of her shoe struck his shoulder. He flinched away, curling into himself, shifting just enough for Jorah to shove the blade away. Although Baelish held onto the weapon, he made no attempt to use it a second time. Instead, he saw an opening to freedom. With Daenerys half-blocked by Jorah, the doorway was empty, leaving enough space for him to slither on by.

But in his eagerness to flee a situation wildly out of his control, Baelish moved without balance. More significantly, he failed to see the puddle of water ahead, leftover from when Jorah had stood soaking wet in the doorway.

In a decision that would prove fatal, Baelish rushed for the door and slipped on the wet floor, careening face-first down the stairwell. Had he dropped the knife or the chocolates, he may have been able to reach for help, or even catch himself. But he clutched them both—the evidence of his guilt—like a lifeline, holding fast to reputation until the very end.

It was a brutal thing, to hear a man fall to his death. With each hollow thump of flesh against wood came the echo of a nail driven into a coffin. And yet, Baelish himself hardly made any noise at all. No shouts, no shrieks, no cries. Just a final choked-off groan that sounded more animal than human.

And then, silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the saying goes…"Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know when you’re going to go tumbling down a flight of stairs." Wait, what? What do you mean that’s not the quote? 
> 
> An important Daenerys Targaryen life lesson: If someone threatens your man, beat them with your stilettos. 
> 
>   
> Wonky word support:
> 
> Blind pig - another name for a speakeasy.
> 
> Cockamamie - ridiculous or implausible. 
> 
>   
> Also, I've got a Halloween-y Jorleesi fic I'll be posting sometime this week, so this is your official warning. Read it if you DARE. <3


End file.
